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When House started to wake, he drifted for several long seconds trying to piece together where he was. The mattress was harder than expected, the sheets smelled funny, and there was something odd about Wilson's breathing. Da-di-dum-dum: House was mentally humming along with the new rhythm, and then it hit him.

He could hear more than one person.

Wilson was Wilson, same as always. But there was also a huffing almost-snore, and an intermittent low mumbling rumble. He listened to the harmony of breathing for a few seconds. It was easy and comfortable, somehow, like a half-remembered song from childhood, and he could have dozed off to the sound.

Except for the fact that he usually didn't sleep with more than one person.

House turned his head and opened his eyes. Oh. The other two people -- other two men -- were in another bed. In the dim light he could see them huddled on the edge of the bed facing him. Military Model -- um, John Sheppard -- was tucked tightly around The Yakker -- Rodney McKay. A vast expanse of sheet stretched behind Sheppard's back, unused.

House smirked and nudged at Wilson's right hip, which was pressed up against House's left. Wilson wiggled and then sprawled more, pushing his leg even further over House's. Someone watching might've found the gesture endearing or romantic. House knew it was war. Every night he and Wilson waged an intense, unconscious skirmish for bed space. A California King mattress had been their first joint purchase as a couple, and still the battle raged.

Smiling, House shoved Wilson off his legs none too gently and got up. A quick fumble around the surface of the nightstand between the two beds yielded his phone and something he really hoped wasn't the plug Sheppard had had up his ass the night before. House decided he'd wash his hands when he got to the bathroom, just in case.

The bathroom light was blinding after the shadowed dusk of the hotel room, but after some blinking House managed to focus on the time on his phone. Six-fifteen. He didn't know what hours Smith worked, but the man's Men in Black suit had led House to believe it probably wasn't nine-to-five. With any luck, House would hear back before breakfast.

He'd just finished and sent off the message to Smith (fuck, thumb-typing was arduous) when the door cracked open and Sheppard slinked his way into the bathroom.

"Mornin'," Sheppard drawled without quite looking at House. He gestured vaguely toward the toilet on which House was sitting. "Are you using that?"

House looked down at himself and then back up at Sheppard. The man hadn't seemed like an idiot the night before. Maybe just not a morning person. "With my boxers on?" House asked.

Sheppard shrugged, then looked House in the eye. "Well, I was about conked out by the time you finally took your pants off last night. Maybe you've got one of those flaps on the butt like on little kids' pajamas."

As they shared a smirk, House hauled himself up and lurched over to the counter. Sheppard paid no attention to the gait or House's leg, too busy dropping his sweats to the floor and flipping up the seat and lid to relieve himself. The man didn't ask for privacy -- not that House was inclined to give it anyway -- which House chalked up to the subjugation of the individual of which the military was so intensely fond.

Or, he decided a few seconds later, maybe once a guy's watched you come on his husband's face, letting him watch you piss is not that big a deal.

"So, you and James are married," Sheppard threw out.

They'd covered this conversational ground the evening before, but what the hell. Small talk would provide a good cover for gawking at Sheppard's muscular thighs and ass.

"As close as two men can get in this country," replied House.

"And you do this a lot?"

"Hang out in hotel bathrooms talking to guys while they piss? No. Although, come to think of it, before Wilson and I moved in together many of our more interesting conversations happened at the urinals at work."

Sheppard glanced at him and then down into the toilet again. "I meant the picking up other people to have sex with thing."

"That," House said, watching Sheppard's ass twitch as he finished urinating and then shook off, "is something new. You popped our foursome cherry."

Snorting, Sheppard pulled up his sweatpants and flushed. "Excuse me," he said and nudged House aside to use the closer sink. House belatedly remembered the unidentified thing on the nightstand and decided to wash his hands as well.

By the time House was done, Sheppard was lounging against the wall with his arms folded. Sheppard's t-shirt was pulled tight across his biceps, highlighting the contours of his muscles, and House didn't mind the view at all.

"Were you married before?" Sheppard asked.

"Aren't you a chatty Cathy?"

"Just... whatever," Sheppard said, and the indifference in his tone somehow made the questions easier to take.

"I wasn't," House replied to the original question. "He was. It's kind of a hobby of his."

"Yeah, he told me about his wives. Three. That's a hell of a lot of denial."

"You think?" House shook his head. It had taken years of nonsense to get them to this point. No way to even do it justice. "I have to say, though, every time he honestly thought he would make it 'until death do us part.' He's kind of stupid that way."

Sheppard tilted his head as his eyebrows rose. "So you two aren't going to make it that long?"

"No, we will. Of course, given what's going on with me, he doesn't have that far to go." House cursed himself silently. The guy's body wasn't that great, to lull House into letting something like that slip.

Sheppard worried at his lower lip. "You're --"

"Not talking about it."

Demonstrating a keen sense of not-being-a-total-idiot, Sheppard dropped it. "OK." They stood in silence for a few beats and then Sheppard piped up again. "Why'd you get married?"

"Death benefits. Duh." House's leg was starting to twinge a little from standing on the marble floor, so he nudged Sheppard aside and, closing the toilet lid, re-claimed his place on the throne.

"No," Sheppard said as he shifted to slouching against the counter, "I mean, with all that in James' background, what made you decide he was the one?"

House stretched his right leg, enjoying the minuscule relief as the muscles (the ones left, his mind supplied) lengthened.

"He's always been the one," House confessed. "I just needed time to get my head out of my ass so he could get his dick up there."

Sheppard said with amusement, "I kind of got the sense that you were the top."

Fixing him with a stare, House confirmed, "Oh, I'm the top, all right. No matter what Wilson tells you. That has absolutely nothing to do with where the dicks go, though."

"Hmm, guess not."

"And how long have the two of you been together? McKay went all logorrheic and flustered when I asked."

Sheppard shrugged. "We've been teammates and friends for years now. The sleeping together thing is more recent."

"But serious."

Sheppard threw a quick glare at him and then started fiddling with a toothbrush, pointedly not looking at him. "It's something to do."

"You don't use condoms. You own sex toys together. You're partners." House leaned in, but still Sheppard avoided his gaze.

"I've got Rodney's back, and he's got mine. That's the only thing anyone really needs to know about our relationship, and what the hell do you care, anyway?"

"I don't care." House sat back and watched Sheppard roll the toothbrush between his fingers, took in the clench of his jaw and the tension in his shoulders. "But you obviously do. It's interesting."

"Don't ask; don't tell," Sheppard muttered, jamming the toothbrush back into the chrome holder and straightening up to look at himself in the mirror.

"I get the sense that's your personal philosophy as well," House noted. "And yet you asked."

"Small talk about family puts people at ease." As House watched, Sheppard's posture somehow became both straighter and more relaxed at the same time. His face smoothed out, and a small smile began to grace his lips. It seemed to be a conscious, deliberate transformation back to the laid-back composed presence of the night before. Very interesting.

"Diplomacy 101," Sheppard finished, just as The Yakker burst in to the room, talking before he was even halfway through the doorway.

"What did you eat last night that it's taking you so long -- oh." He stopped abruptly, almost getting caught by the door swinging shut. The befuddled jump out of the way was amusing. "I thought it was just Sheppard in here."

Sheppard raised an eyebrow. "You didn't notice the other bed was half empty?"

"Why would I notice the other bed at all? It's half past insanity in the morning, and I'm ninety percent still asleep. The only reason I got up was to drag your ass back under the covers because I'm cold."

"Aw, Rodney needs me," Sheppard replied with a grin.

Nauseating, House thought. "Why don't you take this love fest back to your bed, mmm-kay?"

McKay rounded on him. "Excuse me, but this does happen to be our bathroom. You're welcome to head back to your own room at any time."

With a little Wilson-like moue of disapproval, Sheppard interjected, "Rodney."

Just as House was about to open his mouth and cut McKay to size, the door was yanked open again and Wilson hustled in. Ignoring Sheppard and McKay completely, he headed straight for House, determination and a tinge of desperation in every pore.

"Up," he snapped, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

House loved it when Wilson was driven into bossiness. "I'm comfy," he replied.

"Up!" Wilson insisted more urgently.

Thoroughly amused, House kept himself planted. Wilson was always like this the morning after donor events -- floating on the sea of weakened drinks and water chasers he'd downed to keep up a social buzz without getting too tanked.

"You could --" House said, nodding toward the shower curtain.

Ooh, what a glare. Wilson was full of piss and vinegar this morning, only not so much with the vinegar. "I'm not a caveman," Wilson said. "I'm not peeing in the tub because you don't want to get off your ass. Get up."

House's rebuttal was cut off by Wilson jerking him up by the arm, practically dislocating his shoulder. House caught a wide-eyed look on McKay before being whirled around and shoved against the wall.

Wilson took half a second to ensure House was standing on his own -- such sweet devotion, House thought with no little sarcasm -- and then slammed the toilet lid up.

As House, Sheppard, and McKay watched from a cluster on the other side of the room, which was extraordinarily large for a hotel bathroom in Manhattan, Wilson whipped out his dick, threw back his head, and appeared to have the most ecstatic urination experience ever known to man.

His ass clenched -- strong, tight, and quivering. His naked back arched, forming a long, lovely line up to his straining shoulders. With his head cocked to one side, the trapezius and sternomastoid muscles stood in relief, all tension and power.

And then there was Wilson's face: eyes closed, cheeks flushed, mouth open in euphoria. His tongue made a quick foray out to lick at the corner of his lips, and House had to reach down and adjust himself in his boxers.

When a sighing moan left Wilson's lips and every muscle began to tremble into relaxation, House heard one of the other men swallow. He didn't blame the guy. Even the time House had found relief through self-catheterization after four days of not going didn't seem to have been as amazing as what Wilson had just gone through.

Smiling, Wilson flushed the toilet and then turned toward them. His face resolved into the dopey look of befuddlement he got when a punchline had sailed right over his head.

"What?" he asked, and all House could do was step forward and lean in for a kiss.

Wilson ducked him and beelined for the sink. "My mouth tastes foul. No kissing until we've brushed our teeth." He turned on the water and started scrubbing his hands fastidiously.

Wilson could be such a girl. Great when it came to good food on the table and clean clothes in the dresser, but downright annoying at other times. Sitting down once again, House made a face at the man's back. He extended the expression to McKay, too, who was right next to Wilson, carefully applying a strip of gel to a toothbrush. Suck-up.

"We have to wait until we get home?" House asked forcefully. It was not a whine, no matter what the smarmy look on Sheppard's face was trying to imply.

"An hour-plus trapped in an enclosed space with morning breath and your bitching?" Wilson retorted. "No, thank you."

"Then what --"

House was interrupted by a loud knock at the hotel room door, followed by a high voice trilling, "Housekeeping!"

Wilson, the self-satisfied little bastard, turned to Sheppard. "Given that you have the most clothes on of any of us, would you mind getting that?"

"Ha woo dat?" McKay mumbled through a mouthful of foam.

"I called as soon as I woke up," Wilson explained as he stretched, accentuating the line of his torso again. "Said I was you, or John, technically, and that you and he had both lost your toiletries bags."

McKay spat. "Hm, smart," he said.

Wilson's smile had a little too much gloat in it for House's taste -- it wasn't like he'd solved Fermat's Last Theorem, for Christ's sake -- but when he draped an arm around House's shoulders and nuzzled at House's ear, House was willing to forgive.

A fumbling at the bathroom door sent McKay over to open it up. Sheppard stepped in with his arms full. "They sent up a ton of stuff," he reported, dumping it all on the counter. "Towels, toothpaste, toothbrushes, razors and shaving cream, deodorant."

As Wilson ripped himself away from House and grabbed at a toothbrush like a drowning man at a life preserver, House snatched up the tiny tube of toothpaste. "Evermint? What the hell kind of brand is that?"

"It's the cheap, 'don't forget your toothpaste because you'll have to use this crap' kind," McKay noted. He'd been pushed away from the second sink so Sheppard could brush his own teeth, but he was still hanging around the bathroom for some reason.

House was contemplating exactly how to throw McKay's ass out when Wilson finished rinsing and spitting. "Much better," Wilson sighed, smacking his lips, which apparently in Canadian meant 'the nearest person should kiss me immediately' because that was exactly what happened. McKay surged forward, put one beefy hand on Wilson's jaw and the other on his shoulder, and planted one on him.

"Hey!" House shouted, and Wilson jerked his mouth away from McKay's. Better.

House was stretching a hand toward Wilson's wrist when Wilson cut off McKay's nervous stammering with, "Mmm, minty," and dove back in for another kiss.

"God damn it," House muttered under his breath. Fucking Wilson and his annoying toothbrushing rule. You'd think he was paid by the goddamn American Dental Association. House looked to Sheppard for support in breaking up this clearly-violating-the-rules-of-foursomes-because-House-said-so make-out session, but Sheppard's expression was more intrigued than irritated. House took comfort in the fact that letting the toothbrush dangle from his lips made Sheppard look like a big fat dork.

Then before he knew it, Wilson had swooped down on him, planting gentle sweet-smelling kisses across House's face. Such a girl, God, embarrassing.

"I'm going to shower," Wilson breathed across House's lips and then pulled away, shoving his boxers to the floor.

"We can all shower," the now-naked McKay said eagerly, and followed Wilson into the tub.

Sheppard stepped forward, a lazy smile on his face and a little patch of fuzz right at the small of his back. House ran two fingers across it -- hm, as downy as it looked. "We're not all going to fit in there, McKay," Sheppard noted.

"Turns," McKay replied in a sloppy, smacking voice. House looked up at him, and God fucking damn it, he was kissing Wilson again. House realized he'd started this whole thing, but it was too early in the morning to be expected to share.

"You want to get off my husband?" he snapped.

McKay stopped nibbling on Wilson's lips just long enough to say, "Sure," and then reached down to Wilson's definitely interested dick.

Last straw. House shoved McKay back and yanked Wilson toward him, and the shower bar creaked ominously until Sheppard got there to steady McKay.

"I said get off my husband, not get my husband off!" House snarled.

Wilson knocked him on the head and said scoldingly, "It's not Rodney's fault you didn't brush your teeth."

"Fuck that. I don't need fresh breath for this." House leaned forward and sucked hard on the head of Wilson's cock.

"Fuck," Wilson gasped, steadying himself with a hand on each of House's shoulders. The angle was a bit awkward with Wilson still in the tub, but then Wilson shifted his feet and re-distributed his weight, which took some of the pressure off House.

He loved giving seated blowjobs. He loved getting them more, of course, but for all the positions to give a blowjob, this was the best. His leg was irrelevant, not in the way at all. He could control the tempo easily, moving closer or farther away or to either side as he liked. Even more than that, it kept Wilson on his toes, made him work his muscles for balance, and House got to feel every bit of strength in those long thighs and firm butt.

He heard a gasp and a sigh from the area just to his right, and would've grinned if he'd had any intention of pulling even a millimeter away from the hard flesh he was working in his mouth. He was good at this, and Wilson was a porn star with his noises, so why wouldn't Military Model and The Yakker be enthralled and impressed?

A few moments later, he dipped down to nip at Wilson's balls and chanced a look over at McKay and Sheppard. McKay smirked at him and reached down with one hand to stroke at the spiky-haired head that was bobbing over his own dick.

House knew a challenge when he saw one, and redoubled his efforts. There was a spot on Wilson's left testicle that was some kind of strange acupressure point for orgasm. Locating it with a firm finger was an almost surefire guarantee --

Wilson let out a long snort and bucked. House had to hold on with one hand on Wilson's balls and dick and the other splayed across the front of Wilson's thigh as Wilson came. He kept lazily licking as Wilson trembled through the aftershocks, letting go only when Wilson tugged on his hair to stop.

Triumphant, the immense satisfaction on Wilson's face clear evidence of his prowess, House turned toward the smug bastard who'd thrown down the gauntlet. Hardly a bit of anticipatory tension to be found -- McKay wasn't even close.

"I win," House gloated, as Wilson's fingers tangled possessively in his hair.

McKay lifted an eyebrow and traced a hand up the strong arms around his hips. "No, I'm pretty sure I win," he commented, closing his eyes and leaning more into Sheppard.

House glared at Wilson's chuckle, but let Wilson push him back to climb out of the tub.

"Guess I'll wait on that shower after all," Wilson said, his eyes agleam as he pulled House up and dragged him from the room. "I've got something better to do, anyway."


The click of the bathroom door shutting had barely registered with Rodney. Sheppard was way too good at this, seriously. Seriously. Seriously. Behind his closed eyelids, Rodney's eyes rolled back into his head, and every muscle in his body drew tight as Sheppard sucked the life force out of him. Fuck, fuck, fuck; so good.

He sighed and pulled his fingers from their death grip in Sheppard's hair. He felt slightly guilty about the unconscious tugging, but honestly, the man had follicles to spare. More important things to think about at that moment, anyway: "C'mon get up here, and I'll do you."

Nudging Rodney's hip, Sheppard waited for him to look down, then nodded lightly toward the floor. "Too late."

Rodney had to laugh as he pulled Sheppard to his feet. "You are such a cock-whore."

"You love it," Sheppard countered with a sly grin and pressed his lips to Rodney's gently.

"I love --" Rodney began, caught up in the moment, but then he remembered abruptly who he was talking to. "Yeah, it." Too late, though; Sheppard was already pulling away, reaching for his clothes. Damn.

It was awkward for a minute, with Sheppard getting dressed and Rodney still standing naked in a dry tub. He thought about turning on the water, letting the spray drown out the discomfort. He thought about calculus, how much easier that was than this. He thought about Katie Brown, how inept he'd been with her, never able to find the words to express himself, to put them both at ease. And now, this time, he had the words but ... he and John didn't talk about things like that.

He stepped out of the tub and grabbed for his boxers. "How did we get here, Sheppard?"

Lounging against the sink, Sheppard replied easily, "The IOC came up with that stupid Earthside rotation requirement --"

"I don't mean in New York," Rodney interrupted impatiently. "I mean having a blowjob competition with two other guys in a hotel bathroom."

Sheppard's snort seemed to echo off the walls. "That's rich, you asking that, Rodney."

Honestly confused, Rodney stared at him. "What?"

"You were the one pimping me out last night."

What? How did Sheppard come up with that ridiculous notion? "I didn't pimp you out!"

"It certainly wasn't my idea."

Oh, no, sir; he was not getting away with that. "You went along with it enthusiastically enough."

Arms crossed, chin lowered, Sheppard was obviously digging in. "It was your idea," he said. "So why are you asking me where it came from?"

"It wasn't my idea; it was House's idea, and there's no way he would've had it if you hadn't spent the entire night flirting with the man's husband." Ha. Get out of that one, flyboy.

"I wasn't flirting with him," Sheppard protested.

"Yeah, you weren't." The room was pretty big for a bathroom, but there still wasn't enough floor space to pace properly, which was immeasurably frustrating.

"I was being charming, which I know you have no experience with, but it was in fact the reason the DOD wanted me to come to the stupid shindig in the first place. Put a human face on the armed forces to build support."

"Support for a group whose primary tactic is blowing up stuff." Kind of a low blow, he knew, but not entirely wrong.

"Five-sixths of a solar system, Rodney."

Oh! Speaking of low blows! "Are you ever going to let that go?"

"Are you going to shut up about the military? You don't seem to mind too much when Lorne, or I, or one of the grunts is saving your ass." A point for Sheppard, Rodney had to grudgingly concede. "What is up with you, McKay?"

"I just -- I wish --" Rodney wished a lot of things, almost all of which he couldn't share at this particular moment, but there did happen to be one thing bothering him that maybe wouldn't drive Sheppard away completely if he voiced it. "This is weird, all right? Hell, I don't know, maybe group sex with anonymous strangers is old hat for you, but it's really beyond the standard deviation for me."

Sheppard nodded and the side of his mouth quirked up. "Don't you mean three standard deviations?"

"Oh, god, I made a math joke, didn't I?" Exasperated, Rodney slid a hand up to cover his eyes. "And you actually caught it. We're strange, Sheppard. Infinitely strange."

"Yep." Rodney felt the heat of Sheppard moving into his personal space, so when lips touched his it wasn't a surprise. Still sent a little thrill through him, anyway.

"And House and James aren't anonymous," Sheppard continued. "They're strangers, yes, but not anonymous. We know their full names and where they work, and James was introduced to me by the party hostess. See? Not anonymous."

He slipped his arm around Sheppard's waist to hold him there. This was familiar, do-able, back on sturdy ground. "They could be faking it."

"Why would they do that?"

"To get you into bed? I'd fake a name." He ignored Sheppard's completely unwarranted skeptical expression and continued, "And besides, with our level of clearance, we'd make a great target for covert ops."

"You're right!" Eyes widening, Sheppard took a step back and reached for his non-existent gun. "I should kill them now!"

Yeah, all right; make fun of the practical one. "Shut up. I'm not talking about that. 'Trust but verify.' Isn't that what Reagan was so fond of saying?"

"You think they're commies?" Sheppard's eyes narrowed; Rodney waved off that goofiness.

"Just hand me House's phone." He gestured to the counter where the black cell was lying, but it still took Sheppard a second to locate.

"Hey," Sheppard said, hefting the phone in his open palm, "it's a YVR-3."

"Such a silly brand name. MRM-68 was the choice they should've gone for." Rodney grabbed it and got to work.


In the bedroom, on the bed, Wilson made a not unimpressive showing of his own oral skills, and the happy ending for House was made even happier by the memory of Sheppard on his knees.

After a few minutes of manly lolling -- and if the warmth and weight of Wilson's head on House's shoulder made him feel something tender, who was to know? -- House's stomach rumbled.

Wilson sat up and stared with mild disbelief. "You're hungry? I thought eating before ten was a ruse of corporate agriculture."

House pinched a little roll of Wilson-flab in retaliation. "All the exertion's taken it out of me. Call room service and get us something. Include bacon. And sausage."

Eyebrows raised in foolish, foolish hope, Wilson asked, "How about some fresh fruit too?"

"Pansy," House retorted and sat up, moving back against the headboard to get more comfortable.

"Besides," Wilson said, because he might have changed for the better over the past several years but he still was terrible at shutting up while doing what House told him, "this is their room, and we can't just order food --"

"You're ordering food?" McKay asked, stepping out of the bathroom. "Get bacon. And sausage. And coffee, a ton of it."

Sheppard emerged right behind him. "If any meal on the menu is labeled 'Heart Attack Special,' that's the one Rodney wants." He ignored Rodney's downturn of mouth and tossed House's phone into House's lap. "That chirped, just FYI."

"Excellent." He perused the return message from Smith as the others took turns using the shower. It had almost everything House had wanted to know in it. Sheppard really was Colonel John Sheppard, US Air Force, on a more-than-top-secret mission in a more-than-top-secret location. Date of birth, family, psych profile... it all matched what Sheppard had said and what House had observed.

Speaking of observing, Sheppard was toweling off in the middle of the room, so House took a second to watch. Mmm. It was sad to see all his delectable flesh get covered up again, but then again the ripple of muscle under fabric was tantalizing in and of itself. House had to forcibly drag his attention back to his phone to keep reading.

McKay really was Meredith (Meredith!) Rodney McKay, Ph.D., Ph.D., astrophysicist civilian contractor with the U.S. military on a more-than-top-secret mission in a more-than-top-secret location. His psych profile was more-than-a-little amusing, but once again, consistent with what House had observed.

By the time he was done reading, all three men were fully clothed and the shower was free. Room service delivered some time in the next few minutes, and he stepped out of the bathroom to the aroma of dark, rich coffee. Over a spread of food that House could've lived off of for days, the four of them talked, the conversation meandering here and there. McKay continued to be as interesting as House had thought the evening before. Sheppard was more intelligent than he seemed to want to let on (not flinching over the word 'logorrheic ' had certainly been a clue) which was both gratifying and an intriguing puzzle. And Wilson -- Wilson was sitting on a pile of smugness a mile high.

At first House thought it was because he had two new people who wanted to flirt, and go beyond flirting, with him. When Wilson's hand rubbed across House's shoulder for the third time right as McKay shared a smile with Sheppard, however, the ulterior motive became clear. Couple-y stuff. From practically the first day they'd moved in together, Wilson had pressed to invite people over -- and not just a random group for poker or stag films. No, Wilson wanted people who came in pairs. The So-and-Sos for dinner. Joe-and-Bill for drinks. Cameron-and-Chase for... Actually, House didn't know what Wilson would've done with Cameron and Chase. House's proposal of a rousing tournament of Bait the Idiot had been thoroughly shot down.

Now House had inadvertently provided what Wilson had wanted for years. He was tempted to gag, literally, and then figuratively vomit out something vile that would break up this gay suburban freakshow of hidebound conformity. But Sheppard had just gotten a good zinger off at McKay's expense, and McKay was spluttering to keep up, and Wilson's warm, steady hand was quivering on House's thigh as Wilson tried not to let his laughter out. House decided to graciously allow this to continue, while of course planning to claim credit and accept the reward Wilson would no doubt feel was House's due.

"Anyway," McKay said, his glare bouncing right off Sheppard, "today we're planning to go to Princeton. The astrophysics chair, Spergel, is completely mistaken with about half of his theories, and his data are ridiculously outdated given what's going on with my project, but he's got some ideas that are perhaps not entirely worthless I want to quiz him on."

"And," Sheppard put in, "we've got a few days before we have to get back, so why not escape from New York?"

Rodney rolled his eyes. "You're thinking about the Kurt Russell movie, aren't you?"

"No," Sheppard replied petulantly.

Weirdo, House thought, as Rodney insisted, "Yes, you are! You like the worst science fiction ever."

Wilson broke up the argument in between the words "Back" and "Future" by asking, "Where are you staying in Princeton?"

"I don't know," said Sheppard. "Rodney made the reservations."

"I did not."

Sheppard turned to stare at him. "You didn't make us reservations?"

"Like I have time for something like that. You're the one with seventy-five grunts reporting to you. I assumed you assigned one of them to do it."

"You're the one who wanted to go to Princeton. Why would you think that I --"

Ever the placater, Wilson jumped in with, "We live in Princeton. You can stay with us."

The room fell silent, and Wilson's eyes widened in obvious realization of what he'd done. Wincing, he looked at House from the corner of his eyes, and House could see the wheels turning. House is going to kill me, House imagined Wilson thinking. I invited guests without asking him. For overnight. People we met less than twenty-four hours ago. House is going to kill me.

Wilson was an idiot. He was going to owe House so big.

This was awesome.

"Sure," House said. "Why not?"

Three stunned faces stared at him, and was his personality really that easy to get, that virtual strangers would know this was out of character for him? He'd have to work on the mystique.

"Why not?" Wilson echoed faintly in disbelief.

Rodney snorted and rose from his chair. "By which he means his contact with American intelligence -- don't get me started on the oxymoron there -- confirmed that we are who we say we are."

How the --

"I hacked your phone," Rodney said with a shrug. "We wanted to check you out too."

House checked out his phone to make sure it was still what he thought it was. Yep. "This is a YVR-3. The latest technology. Security-enhanced, encrypted --"

Flapping a hand, Rodney interrupted, "Multi-layer, yadda yadda yadda. It's not that hard when you designed the programming for the damn thing."

House looked at Wilson; Wilson looked back. Then they both looked at Sheppard.

"He's not lying," Sheppard said. "He's a patent holder on a lot of cool stuff that's been introduced to the market in the past three years."

"Side thing on account of the government pay scale not being up to par," Rodney noted. "And everything I was able to find out on you in the ninety seconds Sheppard would give me" -- Sheppard waved the complaint off with a lazy hand -- "indicates that you're on the level too, so... Yeah. Why not?"

Reclining back even further against the headboard, Sheppard nodded and concurred, "Why not?"

House grinned. This was going to be good.


Getting picked up by strangers for a night of hot kinky group sex, followed by what was apparently going to be a weekend of hot kinky group sex, was not the strangest, most unbelievable thing that had ever happened to Rodney, but then again he lived in another galaxy with soul-sucking vampires.

Had he chosen -- shudder -- chemistry instead of physics as the life calling against which to apply his considerable genius, then this would no doubt have been the strangest thing, because it was certainly, most definitely bizarre.

He was jolted out of his musings by a thump that vibrated the backseat of the car. He looked back and saw James maneuvering an empty shopping cart away. He'd apparently dropped the groceries into the trunk; a minute or so later he dropped himself into the driver's seat.

"Did you get condoms?" House asked immediately.

James' face, framed in the rearview mirror he was re-adjusting, became filled with perturbed disapproval. "This is where I shop every week. The cashiers all know me; they all know I'm married to you. If I suddenly start buying condoms, they might think I'm sleeping with someone else."

"Which you are," House noted, waving toward the backseat. Sheppard's lips quirked up and he nudged Rodney's knee. Yes, yes, Rodney thought, exasperated. You're Captain Kirk and everyone knows it. God.

"No, no, no," James said to House, shaking his head. "I'm not going to be the bad guy, just so you can have the amusement of going in there and starting drama some day. This is the best grocery store in the area, and I don't want to switch to somewhere else. You buy the condoms; then I'll be the sympathetic figure."

"So you can cry on young, sweet Clarabelle's shoulder while you try to cop a feel? No way." House pointed over his shoulder again. "We'll make Sheppard get them."

Obviously surprised to be suddenly thrust into the argument, Sheppard blinked. "Hey! I'm not buying them. Don't Ask Don't Tell, remember?"

House descended on Sheppard with scorn not seen since that shrimpy bald Colonel person had insulted Rodney's nanite theories and his manhood. "I realize high school health class might've been beyond your academic means, so here's a statistic that you obviously missed: Remarkably enough, the majority of condoms are used with women!"

Sheppard's eye was beginning to twitch. Intensely curious about what would come out of Sheppard's mouth, Rodney leaned in toward him -- only to be distracted by a knock at the window.

A rather ugly boy-man was peering in, two similarly scraggly cronies hanging around several feet behind him. Rodney didn't quite like his face -- duh, ugly -- and watched in something like horror as the car window rolled down. It took him a second to realize that James must have done it -- seriously? -- and to locate his own switch to roll the window back up, but by then it was too late; the kid was already jabbering.

"So, hey, how you doing? My friends and I need a little help, and we were wondering if maybe you guys could help us out?"

Vagabonds! "I don't have any cash," Rodney protested, trying not to make eye contact. Once you made eye contact, panhandlers would never let you go.

"Nah, man, we got cash, plenty of it." The kid grinned, or at least Rodney thought he did. Rodney was still trying not to look him in the face. "It's just, you know, we met some chicks, really hot, and we wanted to get together and hang with them."

"Congratulations," Sheppard offered from his seat way over on the other side of the car away from this cretin. "What do you need us for?"

The kid cleared his throat and nodded, his head bobbing like a lizard's. "Well, you know, what's a party without beer, right? We were hoping since you guys didn't seem too busy, maybe you'd buy some for us? There's an extra twenty in it for you."

This was so strange. "Wait a minute," Rodney said. "You have cash? Enough to buy what you want plus twenty dollars?"

"Yes?" the kid said, and why he'd made it into a question Rodney had no idea. He finally took a chance and looked right in the kid's face. Oily, acne-scarred -- thin with a weird nose -- kind of boyish -- and a weird chin -- but he seemed old enough to be out of grade twelve, at least. (Whether he'd passed was, of course, a totally different question.)

"How old are you?"

"Uh, nineteen."

Oh, for Christ's sake, why was this idiot wasting their time? "Then buy your own damn beer!" Rodney snapped.

"Rodney," Sheppard said with clear amusement, "the drinking age in the US is twenty-one."

He'd forgotten that, although no one could blame him. "You people have the most ridiculous laws. What's so special about the age twenty-one? An irresponsible moron at eighteen is still going to be an irresponsible moron at twenty-one. Americans can sign contracts at eighteen; they can vote the latest imbecile into office at eighteen; they can damn well fight for their country at eighteen; but for some reason, buying cheap beer in the hope that hot girls will lower their standards is off limits. It's absurd. It's --" He had a sudden inspiration. It was brilliant, as all his inspirations tended to be.

Gesturing the kid away from the door, he reached for the lock. "Move, move."

"Aw, c'mon --" the kid protested stupidly, so Rodney felt no guilt about the door knocking his scrawny ass aside as it opened. He also felt no guilt about not listening to the protesting noises Sheppard and James were making -- House was smirking knowingly, lips shut firmly -- because he was going to save the day, yet again.

"Let's go," he barked at the kid and strode toward the front door.

The mission went like clockwork: ten-second explanation, three-and-a-half-minute trip into the liquor store next door, five minutes to find the yahoo's car and wait for him to get out of the grocery store with what Rodney had requested, thirty seconds to make the swap. In under ten minutes Rodney was back in James' backseat with two six-packs of decent beer and a jumbo pack of large condoms ("ribbed for her pleasure" -- moron kid) which he dumped in Sheppard's lap.

"You bought them Grolsch?" House scoffed.

What did he take Rodney for? "I bought us Grolsch. I bought them Old Milwaukee and pocketed the difference. And kept the twenty. Can we go now?"

James threw the car in reverse and smiled impishly at him while backing them out of the space, as Sheppard slipped a hand discreetly into Rodney's lap. Oh yeah. Rodney loved saving the day.


Pulling into the driveway was a relief, and Wilson would've sighed in contentment if he'd had any capacity to deal with House's mocking. Not in front of Rodney and John, at least. He didn't want House screwing up the first impression their two new friends would have of their home. First impressions were important.

It was a home to be proud of, and thank God the cleaning service had come yesterday so John and Rodney were able to see it without the clutter that always seemed to spring up from nowhere.

Wilson couldn't stop smiling as he gave them the tour. Guest bedroom first to drop off their bags -- House grumbled about having to move his laptop out, but for Pete's sake, what was the whole-home wi-fi for if not that? -- then the hall bathroom, master bedroom and bath -- they all ignored the 'and slave' gag that name provoked -- family room, living room, kitchen. The backyard could wait until later.

John accepted a bottle of the Grolsch with a smile and a nod, "Nice place you got here."

"It seems a little small," Rodney commented as he inspected the cookbooks in the nook by the stove.

"Rodney," John warned. Wilson leaned back against the kitchen island and sipped his own beer to hide his smile. House was out-and-out smirking.

Rodney turned to look John in the eye, missing Wilson and House's amused looks completely. "What? They're both doctors, in a private pay insurance system that's practically guaranteed to enrich providers at the expense of --"

Tilting his bottle in Rodney's direction, John ordered, "Knock off the lectures on the superiority of Canadian public policy, unless you want me going over every arcane detail of why the '72 Dolphins' unbeaten season kicked the '07 Patriots' almost-unbeaten season's ass."

The threat seemed not to be an idle one, as Rodney backpedaled immediately. "They've got to be rich, is all I meant."

Wilson found guileless incivility adorable; he had to tamp down the urge to ruffle Rodney's hair.

John, on the other hand, looked disgruntled and about to say something again, but House, as was his wont, steamrolled over everyone. "The Dolphins' season over the Patriots'?" he asked incredulously. "Seriously?"

John turned his attention fully on House. "Yeah, of course."

"Wow, you could not be more misguided." House swiped Wilson's beer without even looking at him and took the square-shouldered stance Wilson knew was his battle-ready position. "The Patriots had two more regular season games, a 315 point differential, and Tom Brady, the best quarterback of the twenty-first century."

"The Dolphins won the Super Bowl," John replied resolutely. "End of argument."

Ooh, tactical mistake, declaring a debate over before it had truly started. Guaranteed way to get House to never let anything go. Wilson reached over for two more beers and passed one to Rodney. As Rodney took it, Wilson nodded toward the living room so they could get out of the fray.

As Wilson and Rodney left, House had his cane slightly raised and bottle in easy smashing position. "No way in hell! Look at the players, look at the competitors, look at the stats!"

John seemed not to be intimidated in the least, if his slouch against the counter was anything to go by. "Yeah, let's look at them. The name Larry Csonka mean anything to you?"

Out of earshot, Wilson couldn't help but chuckle. "It could be hours," he informed Rodney as they settled in the living room, Wilson in his favorite chair and Rodney on the couch.

"Better him than me," Rodney replied. "In case you didn't guess from Sheppard's threat, I'm not so big on American football. Do you like it?"

Wilson nodded. "More than House does, in fact. But he likes arguing more than anything else." They shared a smile and then sat relaxing for a minute until Wilson remembered Rodney's plans for the day. "When do you have to be over on the campus?"

"I told Spergel I'd call him."

Oh, good, Wilson thought happily. "After lunch, then? We've got some homemade lasagna in the fridge and a nice Italian bread I picked up yesterday from the bakery down the street. And pie."

Groaning, Rodney rubbed his jaw. "How do you not weigh five hundred pounds?"

"Exercise," Wilson replied, grinning slyly at Rodney to let him know exactly what kind of exercise Wilson meant. Rodney grinned back, his cute slanting mouth turning up and lighting up his face.

Wilson rose to his feet at the same instant Rodney waved him over. This whole experience was like being a teenager again, when everything was a new possibility there for the taking, with no worries, no guilt. He slid a knee onto the couch and bent over Rodney, wanting to keep some height. Rodney's head tilted back obligingly; his lips opened even before Wilson touched them with his own.

Rodney's lips were fuller than House's, meatier, as strange as that sounded. Wilson had noticed that earlier that morning, and now he was reveling in it. He couldn't stop playing with them, sucking first the top lip and then the bottom, as Rodney twisted and turned, trying to get Wilson settled into a proper kiss. Finally, Rodney's right hand moved from Wilson's shoulder to the back of his head -- Rodney's left hand was clutching at Wilson's hip -- and splayed widely, insistently.

Amused at the impatience, Wilson surrendered. He let Rodney press their lips against each other firmly, steadily; let Rodney lick his way into Wilson's mouth and slide tongue across tongue. Rodney moaned quietly, a sweet, delicious sound, and Wilson answered with a moan of his own.

When they pulled apart, Wilson dropped a quick kiss to Rodney's chin and shifted to sit next to him on the couch. In the move, Rodney's arm somehow slid around Wilson's shoulders. Wilson had a sudden flashback to some of his high school dates: making out on the girl's basement couch and watching movies on TV. No braces, this time around -- much better.

Rodney stroked his shoulder in a way that felt cautious, hesitant. When Wilson turned to ask what was wrong, Rodney offered, "Sorry I was rude earlier."

"When?" Wilson asked, perplexed.

"About your house." Rodney looked almost bashful; it was an odd look on his face. "I just meant I was expecting something mansion-like."

Oh, that. Wilson chuckled again and patted Rodney on the knee. "First of all, House is ruder when he says hello, so don't worry about it. Second, we wanted somewhere cozy. Don't let House know I used the word 'cozy,' though, or I'll never live it down."

"You're secret's safe with me," Rodney promised. "I noticed the disdain for femininity. I mean, not that I don't have a healthy respect for traditional gender roles, but he takes it to an extreme. Overbearing mother, repressed heterosexuality, or secret cross-dresser?"

Wilson laughed. "None of the above. Well, he does have heterosexual tendencies, but he represses almost none of them. But on the cut-downs, that's... just his way. Nothing's sacred."

"Pestering you about being a girl seems to be a favorite, though."

"It --" Wilson stopped. As close as he was feeling to Rodney -- as good as Rodney's arm felt around his shoulder -- this was private territory. House didn't like hearing about this kind of thing, and he liked anyone else hearing it even less.

Rodney looked at him, waiting. The steady gaze reminded Wilson of something, but he couldn't place it. Nubbed fabric under his fingertips, that was part of it. Dimmed lighting, bookcases in the background, well-regulated voice: his old psychiatrist's office, Wilson realized.

Rodney wanted to know how he felt. Rodney was willing to listen to Wilson's feelings. It was strange, disorienting, to have it happen here, on Wilson's own couch, and Wilson's tongue was moving before he even had a chance to think.

"It's because he can't quite believe I love him. That's what I think, anyway. He's had two people in his life who loved him without reservation, and they were both women. So, he needles me by calling me a woman, and when I deny it, that proves to him, in a strange way, that my love isn't as deep. As real."

Rodney blinked, clearly not knowing what to say.

"Or else I simply think the mental picture of you in a skirt and pearls is hilarious." House -- of course -- had chosen that minute to pop into the room and speak up. John stood a few steps behind him. "Which it is," House confirmed.

Shaking his head, John crossed to the couch and dropped to Rodney's other side. He sprawled over more than his share of cushion -- Wilson had never seen a military officer with posture so permanently relaxed -- and Rodney leaned into him slightly, pulling his arm away from Wilson.

Wilson smiled quietly at how good they looked together and rose from the couch. On his way to the kitchen he stopped next to House, who had settled into Wilson's chair. "Ready for lunch?" Wilson asked, rubbing his hand across House's hair.

House yanked his head away and stared up disbelievingly. "No. How in the world can you possibly be hungry?"

Hurt by House pulling away, Wilson crossed his arms and glared. "It's lunch time. The time when normal people eat."

A millisecond later he almost lost his footing as House grabbed him around the waist and jerked him toward the chair. He ended up half-sitting on the chair's arm in House's vise-like grip.

"That would make sense," House said, eyes gleaming, "if it actually were lunch time and you were anywhere near normal. You just want to put us all in food comas and have your wicked way with our stuporous selves."

"That's about right," Wilson said with a smile. He leaned into House and looked over at their guests, who seemed happy and content. The whole scene was completely gratifying; if Wilson had been a cat, he would've been purring.

So, of course, House couldn't leave well enough alone. "Yeah, all right," he proclaimed, leaning forward in the chair and pushing Wilson to sit up away from him. "Rules."


John was stretched out on the couch, utterly relaxed, a good beer in his belly and Rodney against his side. They hardly ever got a chance to just sit with each other on Atlantis; the limited time they had alone was generally spent more horizontal. Not that he'd ever complain about horizontal activities, but this was... nice. Comfortable.

He was only vaguely listening to James and House talk about lunch, when House abruptly changed the subject to rules.

"Rules?" John asked, raising an eyebrow. Rodney shifted against him, but didn't pull away.

"Ground rules for this weekend," House explained. "House rules."

Rodney shook his head and groaned lightly. "I've known you less than a day," he said, "and already I'm sick of that pun." John smirked a little, matching the smile James, perched on the arm of House's chair and reclined against the back of it, was wearing.

"Here we go," House said seriously, ignoring their amusement. "First, no spilling secrets. Wilson gets a special dispensation for the one he spit out a few minutes ago, because, well, he's a girl and everything." James aimed a disgruntled look at the back of House's head; House flipped him off without even turning around. "Beyond that, all your shit is classified; I'm declaring our shit to be classified, too. Plus, heartfelt confessions are boring, unless they're salacious, in which case, by all means do tell."

"So what you're saying," John drawled, "is only tell the secrets that'll get you off."

"Precisely. Rule number two, no sex outside the house. Wilson's picky about how we look in front of the neighbors and if, God forbid, anyone from the hospital sees Wilson canoodling I'll never hear the end of it."

Easy enough. Not like he and Rodney hadn't had plenty of practice with that one.

"Three," House continued, "no fooling around with another guy's partner without the other guy being there. In other words, hands off Wilson."

John took in the aggravated look on James' face and caught Rodney's flush of color out of the corner of his eye. This guy House was a piece of work. "All these rules," John pointed out, "seem to have something to do with not having sex with your partner."

House shrugged and settled back in the recliner like a monarch on his throne. "Take it or leave it."

Yeah. Poobahs from more than one planet had tried to play this game with John Sheppard. He hadn't bitten then, and he wasn't biting now. He thumped Rodney's arm to head off the protest he could sense was coming, and said calmly, decisively, "I don't think so."

House smirked at him, wide and rude, while James was shaking his head apologetically. John just smiled.

"Look at the hackles on you," House said with a quick jerk of his chin. "You're fluffing up to quite a mane there. Challenging me for alpha of the pack?"

"House," James groaned, as Rodney started to sputter. John had to whack him another quick one so he'd let John take care of it.

Which he definitely would.

"I'm telling you," John said, his best hard-ass negotiator's smile in place, "that this pack doesn't need an alpha."

House's gaze bore into him for a long moment, but really, compared to a Wraith queen? Not so scary. Maybe could've given Kolya a run for his money, had the circumstances been different. John pondered, and smiled, and held a steady gaze, until eventually House grinned slyly and threw a hand over James' knee.

"Any rules either of you want to propose?" House conceded.

John thought they'd covered everything, but James jumped in with a suggestion. "Each person has veto power over what we do."

"You have scary kinks?" Rodney asked, his voice tinged with anxiety, his mind having obviously jumped to the worst case scenario. "Knives? Burning? What?"

"You guys are the ones with the gag and the butt plug," House scoffed, as James held out a hand.

"I was just thinking that our time together should be fun. So if something's not fun for a particular person for whatever reason, stated or unstated," -- there James briefly glared down at House and was met with a who me? expression -- "then we shouldn't do it."

House smirked and squeezed James' waist. "All right."

"All right," Rodney confirmed, and John nodded. It was a good rule; it'd let them keep anything from getting too deep, from going into territory they weren't prepared for. His arms tightened around Rodney reflexively.

Or stumbling into territory that's been cordoned off, he thought as House pulled James' head closer and whispered something in his ear.

"Now that that's settled, enough talking," John declared. "I'm getting hungry."

"OK," James said, sliding off the arm of the chair. "In the fridge, I've got a good --"

"Not for food." He looked over and caught House's gaze. The man's eyes were incredible: startling in their intensity, their brilliance. "Let's take this to the bedroom."

"Now?" James asked, in a voice that hinted at a squeak.

John wondered briefly at that -- James hadn't shown any reluctance at all before -- but the look that House was shooting him commanded all his attention again. "Now," John said, voice low, and was gratified by how quickly Rodney moved.

They formed a ragged line down the hallway to the bedroom: Rodney moving ahead eagerly, John watching his very nice ass and stripping his own shirt off at the same time, House and James straggling behind. Murmurs that might have been protests or questions came from James until they were muffled into non-existence. John took a moment to watch the two men kissing -- deep and heated, with the ease of long experience -- before stripping off his pants and following Rodney through the bedroom doorway.

He had Rodney naked and stretched out on the oversized bed by the time House and James joined them. He looked up from where he was nipping his way up Rodney's inner thighs long enough to order, "Pants off, gentlemen. And you'll want to go get those condoms."

James strode purposefully out of the room -- hesitation obviously gone -- while House headed for the bed, his gaze sweeping across Rodney's form. "You've got something in mind?" House asked.

"Of course," John replied and teased an especially sensitive spot on Rodney's leg with his tongue. Rodney's squirm was delicious; John slid his hands to Rodney's hips, bracketing Rodney's thighs with his forearms, the better to feel every twitch.

When he nuzzled at Rodney's balls, Rodney arched and let out a glorious moan. It was quickly followed by a small sound from House, who was still standing there and still fully clothed.

Mesmerized by the scene? Nervous about showing his leg? John didn't know and didn't care. "I wasn't kidding," he said, and licked a wide stripe under Rodney's balls. "Get your pants off and get on the bed next to Rodney. I'm going to do this to you, too."

He heard a quiet swish as the box of condoms hit the comforter next to his shoulders, but his eyes were drawn to James circling behind House and reaching for House's belt. Rodney kicked him with a heel lightly, and John smiled as he returned his attentions to Rodney's groin.

He loved the wrinkles on Rodney's balls, trying to get his tongue into every crevice. He loved the smooth hairless patches of skin on Rodney's inner thighs. He loved the hairs at the base of Rodney's dick and how tugging them with his teeth at the perfect pressure made Rodney quiver.

"You're a fucking tease," Rodney moaned, and John grinned. Rodney hadn't begun to experience the teasing he was going to get now.

John looked up to check on the others, and lo and behold, House had actually done what he'd been told: he was stretched out on his back next to Rodney, naked from the waist down. James, fully naked, was curled around him slightly on the other side, watching John intently and writhing against House's hip. They all fit comfortably on the large mattress, no need to conserve space.

"On your back, James," John instructed, and he readily complied. James' hand lingered in House's, which was... sweet. They could cuddle and touch as much as they liked above the waist, as long as they left their lower halves to John.

He sat up to take in the sight of all of them at once. A buffet, a feast, with no need to share. Rodney's dick was thick and straining, his balls gorgeous and familiar. James was erect, ready to go, his long, slender cock jutting out of the best groomed pubes John had ever seen on a guy. House was half-hard -- interested but not fully committed.

John could work with that.

He climbed between House's legs, ignoring Rodney's flustered protests, although he did keep his left hand on Rodney's balls in appeasement. John wanted them all, and since he didn't have three mouths, this was going to have to do.

House's partly erect penis was so tempting -- John loved to completely engulf a half-hard dick, get his lips all the way to the skin below, and then feel the gradual expansion pushing him back -- but he didn't want to stop for the condom just yet. He buried his nose in House's thick thatch of pubic hair instead, exploring the juncture between thigh and groin, taking in the coarseness of hair, the stretch of muscle, and the exotic, arousing scent of a new musk.

Rodney's protesting morphed into something deeper, almost growling, and John felt him turning onto his side to face House. If, in the process, John's hand slipped further back on Rodney, to the crease between his ass cheeks, so be it.

The inarticulate grunting gasps were coming from James, John decided, and he reached over with his right hand to check that situation out. James had a hand around his own dick, naughty bastard, so John batted it away. His, his, his.

He felt around for the condom box, found it between House and James, and tossed it James' way to give the man something useful to do. John was just about ready to kick this into high gear.

House's balls were slightly different in size, John realized as he took first one and then the other into his mouth. Hairier than Rodney's but just as fun to roll across his tongue.

When he nuzzled his way up to House's dick, the condom was already on, and a cherry flavored lube had even been applied. That James, such a helper. John stretched his right hand over and found James was covered, too. Awesome. He slid his left hand back up onto Rodney's dick and found himself humming with happiness.

A dick in each hand and one under his lips. Perfection, he thought, as he licked his way up to the tip of House's cock.

"I thought you weren't a slut," House groaned, and John's concentration snapped like a twig.

He pulled both hands back and sat up. "What?"

"House!" James hissed, while Rodney kicked at House's calf. John ignored them both in favor of staring House down.

House, who seemed infuriatingly unruffled, explained, "In the kitchen, you said you weren't a... What was that word?"

John was staring into House's eyes to feel him out, to see if he was trying to torpedo this on purpose, or if he just had no tact and an incredibly poor sense of timing. "What word?"

"I don't know; that's why I'm asking. You said me calling the shots last night was hot, but you're not a..."

Oh, that word. "Twink. And I'm not."

"House!" James hissed again, obviously concerned that the party would be ending. No worries on that score. House had given himself away -- the man was nervous about being flat on his back, exposed, not in control, unsure of John's next move.

Tough shit.

"You're like twenty years too old to be a twink," Rodney protested.

John rolled his eyes. "Yeah, thanks." He stretched across House, pressing as firmly as possible against House's dick, to get to Rodney's gorgeous mouth and kiss him. He lingered for a moment, enjoying Rodney's lips and tongue, while he waited for House to start twitching his hips at the contact of their two dicks. There.

He pulled away from Rodney and turned to House, placing his forearms on either side of House's head and covering House's entire body with his own. House's breathing picked up -- not used to being surrounded this way? Interesting.

"The point," John said quietly, lips a few inches from House's, "of getting together like this is to do something we wouldn't normally do, right? Three dicks at once, that's something I don't normally get. You want to call me a slut for that?" He thrust down sharply into House's pelvis; House's neck arched and his eyes rolled back. John smiled. "Go right ahead."

He made his way slowly back down House's body, kissing as he went. He sucked on a nipple through the fabric of House's shirt. Where the shirt had been tugged up, he teased the hair on House's belly with his tongue.

There were no more protests, from any quarter, as John took in House's cock and reached for the other men. A third hand would've been helpful, as mouth-only blowjobs weren't as fun, but he made do.

At one point, the flavored lube turned unpleasantly sticky, but fortunately John realized they had another, better fluid to mask the taste of latex close at hand. He'd wanted Rodney to come last, to have to wait and be driven crazy with the teasing, but duty called. A little work around the head, a firm pressure against the perineum, and Rodney was practically exploding in John's mouth.

He spat half of Rodney's come onto House's dick, and slid over to apply the other half to James' dick personally. House's protests made Sheppard want to grin, but his mouth was otherwise occupied. James was writhing in long, sensuous rolls, obviously holding back from quicker thrusting. It was delicious to move with him, to work to the measured pace and help James keep himself in check. Everything stretched in the tension, even as House pushed for more urgency, for John to get back to him. Greedy bastard, although John was not quite one to talk in this circumstance.

Three dicks, all for him. Three orgasms he was inspiring, driving, creating. Talk about a motherfucking turn-on; God, he felt like he could come himself any second.

James' control broke just then, his hips stuttering and legs clenching, and John rode him to a successful, happy conclusion.

"Fuck," House growled, sounding desperate, sounding close. John clambered over James' splayed legs, thrust his hands under House to grab his ass, and sucked in House's dick, hard and strong. House's groan was long, and his fingers dug into the back of John's neck, clenching, pulling, keeping John there through orgasm and aftershocks.

When House finally let go, John sat tall and surveyed his handiwork. They all looked wonderful: rode hard and put back wet. Splayed, wrung out, blissful. Rodney was half-asleep, mouth hanging open; James had his eyes closed and his hand tucked under House's hip.

House was staring at John intently. "That's it? Nothing for you?"

"Oh, fuck, no," John replied, and took himself in hand. He was going to shoot all over all of them, like signing a work of art.

His eyes having closed, he was startled when hands grabbed his shoulders and another pair tugged on his hips. Then he was being turned, moved, and everyone else was moving, and somehow he ended up sitting on the bed between House's legs, his back against House's chest and House's tongue exploring his neck.

"Wha --" was all he got out before James' tongue pushed aggressively into his mouth. He turned for a better angle for the kiss, which gave House more room to work with, and he was about to burst from all the sensation when Rodney's long finger pressed against his asshole and Rodney's hot mouth enveloped his dick, sucking and licking, and that was all she wrote.

When he came back to himself seconds later, his left hand was in James' hair, his right hand was petting Rodney's head, and his own head was lolled back on House's shoulder. "Slut," House whispered, drawing it out.

"Oh, yeah," John breathed, and closed his eyes.


The lasagna for lunch was almost as euphoria-inducing as the sex had been -- and Rodney totally didn't deserve that smack from Sheppard because hey, he'd said 'almost.' It was a shame to have to leave the house, or even put pants on, really, but Spergel was waiting and duty called and so on and so on.

Sheppard, the lazy bum, was staying put, but James had offered Rodney a ride. House and Sheppard barely looked up from the television -- billiards, seriously? -- when James and Rodney left.

The drive to the campus was pleasant: sunny day, quiet music on the radio, James pointing out various items of interest. Peaceful. Rodney was bored, but he hid it fairly well, he thought.

Or maybe not, because James was smirking when he stopped by the physics building. "So you can find me later, do you remember which building was the hospital?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

"The one with the sick people?" Rodney hazarded.

James smiled warmly and discreetly stroked a finger across Rodney's knee. "I'm going to be doing paperwork, nothing that should keep me stuck there. Call me when you're done, and I'll pick you up."

Rodney squeezed his fingers and smiled back. This guy was a Class A flirt. Sheppard was a flirt, too, but with a more scatter-shot approach: wide scope, catching everyone. James' flirting was more like a laser beam, concentrated and heat-inducing.

Oh, no. He was not going to meet the astrophysics chair of Princeton with a hard-on. No way. He fumbled his way out of the car, and threw out some form of farewell, and tried not to imagine James laughing at him as the silver sedan pulled away.

Four hours later Rodney was back outside the building, on a bench waiting for James, talking to Sheppard on the phone to pass the time.

"How was it?" Sheppard asked.

"I was so totally wrong."

"You?" Sheppard was mocking him, but Rodney felt inclined to play along.

"I know! It's shocking." He wished he had a coffee. What kind of university department didn't keep their coffee maker stocked? "I was wrong; Spergel's an idiot, worse than worthless."

"Yet you spent the whole afternoon with him."

Rodney shrugged even though Sheppard couldn't see him. "It was fun playing 'Spot the Error.' Also, we got into an elaborate debate on the feasibility of life on other planets. I wiped the floor with him."

"Well, you have inside information he doesn't."

"What?" Oh, Sheppard was talking practicalities, not conceptual modeling. Well, Rodney had inside information on that too, as well as a brain, and -- Sheppard's huffy little huff made him realize he was keeping Sheppard hanging.

"No, I took the con side," Rodney explained, "for the challenge of it, and still obliterated his every argument. A total moron."

Sheppard's next little huff was more amused, less huffy. "What are you doing now?" Sheppard asked.

"Sitting on a bench, waiting for James to get over here. What are you doing?"

"Sitting on the couch, waiting for House to finish whatever he's doing in the other room. You guys have fun tonight."

"What do you mean?" Rodney asked. Had they been making plans behind his back? He hated being left in the dark; those situations usually wound up with Sheppard playing kamikaze with a nuclear warhead or scaling Atlantis with his bare hands and no harness, scaring Rodney more than half to death.

"You'll see," Sheppard replied, and oh, that was so unfair. "House's here; gotta go."

"Sheppard!" Rodney snapped, but the line had already gone dead. Great. Just great.

Rodney was pacing in tight ovals in front of the bench when the Volvo glided up, James smiling brightly from the driver's seat. In spite of his worries, in spite of himself, Rodney found himself smiling back.

"Ready for dinner?" James asked when Rodney climbed in the car. "This evening it's just you and me."

Rodney decided that maybe this one time he could go with the flow.


It had not been one of Wilson's more productive afternoons. He'd get going on a budget form, and his mind would drift to thoughts of John's strong arms. He'd turn to a chart review and remember sucking on Rodney's lips and feeling the insistent darting of Rodney's tongue. Accounting's latest policy memo was lost in the dreamy haze of having watched House come undone under John's clever attentions.

He'd stomped to the break room for coffee five times just to work out the pent-up energy. On each return trip, he'd told himself he could focus if he put those thoughts away for later.

It never worked.

Rodney's call declaring he was "done with that bit of nonsense" was a relief, and Wilson was out of his office within seconds. He'd been thinking about the evening ahead for more than an hour and had decided to take Rodney out for dinner. Rodney had mentioned the sad lack of culinary choice at his current posting; Lahiere's would make an excellent treat.

On his way to the car, Wilson called House to ask him and Sheppard to join them.

"No."

"It's not just you, House." Wilson tucked the phone to his shoulder as he threw his briefcase in the trunk. "Ask John if he'd like to come."

"Oh, I'm positive he wants to --"

Wilson rolled his eyes. "To the restaurant."

"Fine." House's voice became more distant as he pulled away from the phone to yell across the room. "Hey, Sheppard! Want to put on a tie and eat tiny portions of overpriced frou-frou crap, or get the best barbecue on the East Coast delivered right here to the living room, no pants required?"

The mumbled noise that followed was easy to interpret, even as Wilson was switching over to his hands-free earpiece.

"Yeah, he declines your gracious offer," House said. "You and McKay go have fun."

"We will."

Something in Wilson's tone must have triggered House, because he added, "But not too much fun. Remember the rule: no sex outside the house."

Wilson checked the mirrors and shifted the car into reverse, pulling out of his parking spot. "You do know everyone took that term to mean the building and not you."

"Whatever. I'm watching you."

"Oh, yes, I know." Wilson was half-convinced House had hidden cameras every place Wilson was likely to be. He'd grumble about lack of privacy if it didn't play so nicely into his occasional covert exhibitionist bent. "I got a reservation for six o'clock, so we should be back around eight or so."

"All right," House replied. "I'll save you a sausage. No, a rib. I'll probably want to eat the sausage myself."

God, House's come-ons could be so stunningly lame. No pun intended. "Remember the veto power rule? I veto any sex you may be thinking of having with John before Rodney and I get back."

"OK, you can veto the sex I'm thinking of having."

"And any other sex either of you may think up later." Wilson made the final turn before the physics building. "It won't kill you to wait."

"It might," House replied faux-petulantly. "Are you sure you want to risk it?"

"Oh, absolutely. I'm not paying five thousand bucks a year on life insurance on you for nothing."

House laughed. "That's my sweetie-pie right there. See you later. I gotta go kick Sheppard's butt at Gears of War 3."

"See you," Wilson replied, and smiled out the windshield at Rodney.


"Umph," Rodney said as they pulled up in the driveway later. "Mmmm."

"What's that?" Wilson asked. He was a little distracted -- House had parked the SUV crooked in the garage again, so Wilson was trying to figure out if he could get the Volvo in -- but those were odd sounds indeed.

Rodney ran a hand across his stomach slowly, distracting Wilson in a new direction. He gave up and put the car into "park." Driveway was fine for now.

"I haven't had food like that in -- well, ever, I think," Rodney explained.

Wilson smiled and kept watching Rodney's fingers trailing back and forth. He'd always found savoring food, or savoring the memory of food, to look incredibly sexy on other people -- which was more than half the reason he'd learned how to cook.

"It's actually been better there before," Wilson admitted. "The wine was superb, but frankly, I make better bruschetta than the ones served tonight."

Sitting up straighter, Rodney asked eagerly, "You do?"

"Mm-hm. Better pie than we had at lunch, too."

Rodney groaned and flopped back against his doors. His eyes were wide and trained on Wilson's as he said, "Good God, how much more perfect could you be?"

"You're a flatterer, Rodney McKay." Not that he minded, not at all. It was thrilling to get such concentrated attention without having to be on guard for the next barb. Rodney knew how to throw an insult out, of course, but he seemed to have decided Wilson wasn't an appropriate target.

It was so fucking sexy.

"Me?" Rodney responded. "Sheppard's the flatterer. I'm just being honest."

Oh, yeah. Sexy. The teasing warmth that had been fluttering around Wilson's abdomen and groin the whole evening -- the pleasant anticipation -- sparked into flame, and he was suddenly having a very hard time sitting still. "Ready to go in?" he asked, left hand already on the door handle.

Rodney lunged toward him, saying, "Wait," and grabbing at his right arm. He froze awkwardly for a moment -- Rodney's elbow was somehow between Wilson's back and the seat -- until they disentangled themselves.

"Sorry," Rodney said with an embarrassed smile, and it was all Wilson could do not to jump him right there.

"I just wanted to say," Rodney continued, "and I'm not normally one to share things like this, but it seemed appropriate for some reason, as if you might be the kind of person who'd enjoy hearing it."

Into the pause, Wilson replied gently, "I might be, if I knew what it was."

"Oh! Yes, I didn't say it, did I?" That smile again, the one that was almost shy. Why weren't they inside yet? "I just wanted to let you know how... great tonight was. Being with you. And the food, and the wine, of course, can't forget that. But mostly it was you and the flirting thing, and Sheppard's a flirt, you know -- of course you know, you spent all last night flirting with him. But I'm not very good at it; at least, not good enough to be subtle, and the only one I've ever felt comfortable enough to get at least decent at it with is John, and in Atlan-- where we live, he's the military commander and I'm not subtle, and so we can't do it. In public. Flirting, I mean." The steam seemed to go out of Rodney, and he bowed his head. "Thank you, that's all I'm saying."

Wilson's heart had leapt, and his dick was twitching in time with his elevated heart rate. "Rodney?"

"Yes?" His head still ducked, Rodney looked up from under his lashes, and Wilson had to bite at his lower lip to keep from gasping.

"I want you to fuck me. Over the couch, because I don't think I can make it to the bedroom." Rodney's eyes widened and his spine straightened; Wilson began to grin. "That's not subtle, sorry."

"Fuck subtle," Rodney declared. "Get your ass in that door."

He and Rodney must have been a sight to see going up the front walk: trying to keep their composure and not run, but way too close to each other, jostling for position, and grinning their fool heads off the entire time. Rodney's body was temptingly close but agonizingly far when Wilson was unlocking the front door, and Wilson had his coat halfway off by the time he opened the door and backed through the doorway, Rodney inches away.

His gaze was trained on Rodney's lips -- closer, closer, and why won't the fucking door close so they can come all the way over here where they should be? -- and his arms were working frantically to get clothes off. Off! Finally the door closed, finally Wilson's back hit the back of the couch, finally Rodney was on top of him, covering him, bending him back, pulling him close, and God, he couldn't get enough.

Skin, they needed skin, and Wilson's hands were grabbing at any piece of fabric they could find. Rodney's hands were on Wilson's ears, his neck; Rodney was devouring him, teeth-tongue, swallowing him whole, and God, God, where was skin?

"Um," rang out, in an uncomfortable, nervous sort of voice, which wasn't House and wasn't John, and couldn't be Rodney, because Wilson would've felt an "um" like that. Which was something they should explore the second they got a minute, but right now things were way too busy, and Wilson's fingertips were finally hitting skin, up under Rodney's shirt. Magnificent.

"Excuse me!"

The voice, in addition to not being House, John, or Rodney, was not male, Wilson realized for the first time, and was coming from somewhere not so far from Wilson's right ear. He turned his head to see, as Rodney buried his face in the crook between Wilson's neck and left shoulder.

A shocked-faced, primly coiffed young woman in a military uniform was sitting on the couch. Damn.

"Lieutenant Fang, as you can see, Dr. McKay's a great asset in our efforts to liaison with the gay community," John drawled from somewhere behind Wilson. He'd better enjoy his smirking while he can, Wilson thought, because he and House are going to end this night dead.

He gently pushed Rodney up so that they could untangle from the couch. Fortunately, his efforts to get Rodney undressed had been clumsy enough that it only took a few seconds to put their clothing fully back in place.

He knew there was something he should say, some apology he should tender to this woman caught unaware, but all he could do was smile gently at her as John walked her out of the living room.

And then whirl around to House the second the door had closed behind her.

"What the hell was that?"

"I should be asking you!" House retorted from his comfortable sprawl in the larger recliner. "Rule: no fooling around behind your partner's back!"

"That wasn't behind your back! You were right here."

"Like you even knew," House retorted with amusement. Funny -- he obviously found the whole thing funny. "You didn't have eyes for anything but Dr. McKay's Magic Dick."

"It wasn't like that, and you are such an ass!" This was the most mortifying thing Wilson had ever been through, and he'd been friends with House for years. This was just... beyond the pale.

John plopped down in the other recliner, his grin as wide as House's. "Thank you for that show. Gave Lieutenant Fang something very interesting to put in her report on the success of last night's community event. And hey, Rodney, now they definitely won't think I'm with you."

Arms crossed and jaw twitching, Rodney drew himself up to a regal posture. "Well, maybe that'll be one true fact in a government report, then." John looked at him curiously, and Rodney exploded. "You didn't think it was important to warn us that there was someone else in the house?"

"I didn't expect you to be humping James the second you walked in the door," John retorted. "You hoist yourself by your own petard there."

"Petard," House snickered, and that juvenile laugh at a word House knew perfectly well wasn't lewd was the final straw. Wilson marched over to Rodney, grabbed his hand, and tugged him toward the hall.

"We are going to have sex." He glared back at House and John even as he kept going toward the bedroom. "You are not allowed to watch."

House was halfway out of his chair, his face contorting into the confusion he always had when he couldn't tell if Wilson was kidding. "Veto --" he started, but Wilson wasn't in the mood.

"Screw veto!"

"Because you're not screwing us!" Rodney added, and Wilson gave him a grin as he slammed the door.

Then they were alone together, in the bedroom Wilson shared with House, and the world was tilted at a ten-degree angle. Wilson couldn't think of what to do next.

"Um," Rodney said, in an amusing echo of Lieutenant Fang's greeting.

"Yeah, um," Wilson replied and dropped onto the bed. He watched Rodney shuffle his feet on the rug, head bowed, quiet. "I thought you said you've been keeping your sexuality private. Why aren't you angrier about getting outed?"

Shoulder lifting a fraction, Rodney replied, "Like Sheppard said, at least now they won't I think I'm with him. Being military, he's the one that has to worry, not me. I have government clearance, true, but I'm way too valuable to the program I'm on for them to mess with that." Rodney raised his head to look Wilson in the eye, shoulders straightening. "And personally, well, anybody who'd have a problem with it is an idiot, and I don't give a damn what idiots think."

Wilson thought that last part was maybe not entirely true, but it should have been. Most definitely.

"Well," Rodney said, taking a deep breath, and straightening even further, "could we go back to what we were doing before?"

"Before when?"

"I was thinking of when we were pressing into the couch, but maybe before then? In the car, or even in the restaurant. I really do think you have expressive eyes."

Wilson smiled up at Rodney and toed off his shoes. "And you say you're not a flirt. Come here."

Rodney seemed happy to comply, moving steadily toward him, almost prowling, maintaining the most delicious eye contact. When he got close, Wilson leaned slowly back, making him follow, making him press his body along Wilson's and settle on top of Wilson on the bed before getting his lips on Wilson's.

The kiss was tender, romantic, full of affection and longing -- absolute heaven until it was interrupted by a pounding at the door.

"Veto!" John bellowed through the door.

"Go away!" Rodney shouted back, and boy, did he have a pair of lungs on him.

Grinning, Wilson planted a great smacking kiss on Rodney's cheek. "Sex now?"

"Oh, yes."

The charge between them had come back around to the eager, excited fun of their walk between the car and front door. They couldn't stop smiling as they quickly stripped, and their kisses and touches were quick, playful.

In between nips to Rodney's jaw and tickles along his ass, Wilson said, "Changed my mind. I want to do you. OK?"

"Hell, yeah," Rodney replied, thrusting against Wilson's erection. "Where'd we put the condoms?"

Wilson thought for a minute as he ground his hips into Rodney's. "I think House had them last. Knowing him, he stuffed some in every room." He pulled away from Rodney with no little reluctance and ducked down to check under the bed -- House's favorite hiding place for sex supplies. Why he couldn't keep lube in the nightstand drawer like everyone else, Wilson had no idea.

He'd just found a strip of condoms when Rodney's hand slid across his hip. "Sure you don't want me to top?" Rodney asked a little breathlessly. "Your ass looks so pretty like this."

Wilson wiggled a few times, to which Rodney replied obligingly with a lewd groan, and then stood up, shoving the lube and condoms into Rodney's hand. "Such a flirt," he commented and pulled Rodney to him for another long kiss.

The staccato knocks on the bedroom door had to be House's cane, and sure enough, House was the next to shout. "Let us in!"

"No!" Wilson replied, as he and Rodney both fumbled for the lube. They made a mess of both Wilson's fingers and Rodney's, and Wilson had to laugh. Grinning, Rodney flicked a dollop onto Wilson's nose, before grabbing Wilson's hand and positioning it between Rodney's legs. Wilson slid a finger slowly in, enjoying the arch of Rodney's back and the trembling tension of his muscles as he tried to relax.

"Then at least turn on the web cam!" House insisted.

Wilson rolled his eyes and started finger number two. Rodney was so tight. "You've bottomed before, right?" Wilson asked with concern.

"Yes, just -- uh -- not often." Rodney's face was contorted, tense with concentration, and his erection was flagging.

Growing alarmed, Wilson pulled back to give him room. "We don't have to. I could --"

Rodney tugged him forward firmly, and shifted to drive Wilson's fingers deeper. "I'm not a virgin. I want this; I want you."

"But John --"

"Could have my ass whenever he wants. He just doesn't want it that way very often. Come on, don't break the mood." Rodney twisted his hips, and Wilson twisted his fingers, and Rodney gasped as his prostate was stroked. "That's more like it."

Fears assuaged, Wilson pressed closer, one hand opening Rodney's ass and the other alternating between teasing Rodney's balls and stroking Rodney's dick back to full hardness. Wilson was having absolutely no problem maintaining his own erection, as intoxicated by lust as he was.

"On the bed," Wilson suggested, taking a short step that way.

"No," Rodney insisted, pulling him in the other direction. "Standing, I want it standing. Give it to me; give it to me. Fuck, I'm ready."

Wilson couldn't remember the last time he'd had someone begging for it, panting for it. He didn't think he could be any more turned on, and then Rodney pulled carefully off Wilson's fingers and turned to bend over the low dresser. That fleshy ass in the air, sweaty, eager, tiny tremors of anticipation running through it -- and Rodney's eyes, looking back at him over a shoulder, over the ass, bright and happy, fervent, and wanting him.

Holy hell, he couldn't move fast enough. The condoms had fallen to the floor; he snatched them up, ripped them open, snippets flying everywhere, and the new pounding at the door was in time with his beating heart.

"Come on, Rodney," John said teasingly, voice low and seductive. "Let us in. We're sorry; we're sorry."

"Go away," Rodney called. "James is about to fuck me."

Condom finally on, Wilson stepped forward. At Rodney's nod, he grabbed Rodney's hips, positioned himself carefully, and started to push in. They groaned together from the sensation: so full, so hot. An answering groan came through the wall -- John or House, Wilson wasn't sure, and honestly didn't care. Working himself in slowly, making it great for Rodney, was the only thing he wanted to concentrate on.

"Rodney, please," John begged.

"No," Rodney grunted. "This is too good." He dragged out his o's into moans, and Wilson dug deep for the control to take it slow. So good.

"Let us in!"

Measured, deliberate, centimeter by centimeter, and there he was, fully seated, hips against Rodney's ass cheeks. He waited a moment, to let Rodney catch his breath, to catch his own breath. Rodney's back was arched, tense, perfect. He bent to lick a drop of sweat from Rodney's shoulder, when he caught Rodney's gaze in the mirror.

"Fuck me," Rodney breathed, and the slam of his hips backwards made it clear it was a command. Wilson licked the shoulder, kissed Rodney's neck, and obliged.

His thrusts were smooth but pounding, driving Rodney into the dresser and the dresser into the wall. The tattoos of knocks at the door began again, in contrasting rhythm. "Open up!"

"Already done that!" Rodney replied and started to laugh. Wilson laughed with him, rhythm never faltering, and damn, this was so, so good. His mood had lifted entirely, pleasure and enjoyment letting him forgive the thoughtless boors out in the hallway.

"Should we let them watch?" he whispered to Rodney. "It is a shame that they're missing seeing how hot you are like this."

"I'm not stopping to go over to the door," Rodney replied, shoving back against him eagerly.

"No need," Wilson said and grunted as Rodney clenched around him. A few more thrusts, a few more knocks against the door, and Wilson decided to give the fools a hint. "House! How many B and E's have you done?"

Rodney looked back, faintly alarmed. "B and E's? Breaking and -- ooh." Rodney closed his eyes as Wilson apparently hit the perfect spot.

"Doctor thing; don't worry about it." He leaned down and nuzzled at Rodney's jaw, encouraging him to turn for a kiss. Rodney stretched as far as he could, and they shared a sloppy, off-center smooch, as the door clicked a few times and then swung open.

John burst in with House right behind him. "Did we miss it?" John was saying. "Did we -- Oh, fuck." His eyes grew wide, and he sank to the floor. "Rodney, you look so fucking hot like that."

"Huh," Rodney grunted and clamped around Wilson's dick deliciously.

"Pull his hips back," John ordered. "I want to see --" He sucked in a breath when Wilson did as instructed and tugged both their hips away from the dresser. "God, Rodney, your dick. So hot."

Preening, Rodney rolled his hips, and Wilson knew he wasn't going to last. Too much, too much. The pressure, the pleasure, the appreciative audience -- because House hadn't said a word, but his hand was most certainly down his jeans. Wilson worried for a second whether House's leg would hold out, but then decided he had other concerns to attend to.

He wanted to make Rodney come hard with a dick grinding his prostate, give him an orgasm he'd remember for years. He moved Rodney's hips, trying out different angles, until a few strokes later he found the perfect thrust. When Rodney's grunts had turned to moans, he wrapped his hand around Rodney's cock, clamping with thumb and forefinger to pull with the ideal pressure. A quick twist under the rim of the head, a glide of palm around the top, and back down to the base. Four more strokes outside, four more thrusts inside, and Rodney was coming, bucking, slamming back into Wilson and splattering the dresser. Wilson held back, rode it all out, and when the last of Rodney's shudders coincided with a deep moan from John, finally let himself go.

An explosion and an adrenaline rush later, and he was draped over Rodney, pressed into Rodney's sweat and wondering if he'd ever get his breath back.

"Quite the show," House breathed, and Wilson smiled.


Wilson floated out of sleep the next morning with two pairs of hands exploring his body. One pair was rubbing his legs in long strokes; the other was tickling across his chest, plucking lightly at the blanket over him. Eyes still closed, he couldn't shove the covers away quick enough, desperate for those fingers on his skin.

And there they were, exploring, tracing, driving thrills of excitement through him. He kept his eyes closed, the better to concentrate on the sensations of touch. Then a third pair of hands slid onto this face and neck, the fingers pressing into his hairline, the thumbs cupping his ears, and lips and tongue assaulted his mouth.

Morning-breath kisses were utterly disgusting, except this one wasn't. It was exhilarating, engulfing, incredible. It was House, in all his glory, and Wilson sighed happily.

"We decided it was time for your fantasy," Rodney said, as one of the hands on Wilson's legs slipped under him to his ass and a tongue began making its way across his inner thigh. Wilson moaned and tried to reach out to every point of contact at once.

Sensation everywhere, sparks along his nerves, blood warming, skin prickling. "You told a secret," he accused against House's lips. House pulled away and licked teasingly along his lips and onto his jaw.

"Didn't think you'd want it kept under wraps," House murmured.

"No," Wilson moaned. Three tongues on him, under his jaw, up his thigh, on his chest. "Yes."

John's voice, rumbling into the skin near his perineum, was amused. "Do you even know what you're saying?"

"More," Wilson replied. If House had told them about Wilson's fantasy, that would be clear as day.

Apparently it was, because they stretched even more across him, bumping against each other in the quest to cover all of his skin. It was glorious, ecstatic, every part of him laid out for their adoration.

He could tell them apart if he concentrated -- possessive palm there, confident tongue there, eager fingers here -- but it was too much effort diverted from reveling in the heat of it all.

In the midst of his moaning, they spread his legs and pushed them up so that his knees were bent. A firm hand tugged his right knee toward his chest, a wet finger traced around his anus, and someone was burning a trail of kisses up the back of his left thigh. Getting closer, getting closer. He reached out a shaky hand and grabbed the nearest head of hair. "I want," he began, before having to gasp as that wet finger penetrated him forcefully.

"To get fucked," John said from his left side.

"To get sucked," said Rodney from between his legs.

"To get choked," House growled into his right ear, tugging hard at his knee.

They got it, they knew, and he was going to get it, and holy hell, he'd better think of something else or it'd be over before it had begun.

Moaning, grunting, writhing, he surrendered to them, made himself pliant in their arms. The moved him roughly, manhandling him into place at the edge of the bed, and still that finger, now those fingers, rubbed inside him. One, two, a third one twisting its way in, and Wilson's eyes flew open. Three different hands down there, three different men up his ass -- fuck. Double penetration had never been a kink; he wasn't into pain; but the thought, the thought of all of them at once, shit.

Something else, he had to think of something else. Baseball, synagogue, PBS documentaries. Cold showers and cold sheets.

Then the fingers retreated and everything stopped for a moment. Wilson shivered from the lack of movement, frustrated by the abrupt change, and then it started. A big blunt head pressing against his hole. Too slow, too slow.

"Now," he snarled, and grunted as the cock shoved deep, stretching him, filling him to his capacity and beyond. "Yeah." Bearing down, making it work, relaxing and stretching and accommodating... and fuck, it was hot. He was hot, and bothered; one third achieved, two thirds to go.

Then thick legs were straddling his chest, inching into place, and here they went. The cock was stroking his lips, asking permission. Sweet, but totally unnecessary; he lunged to get his lips around it, desperate to be filled on both ends. Latex, yuck, but a small price to pay to get this fantasy fulfilled.

A surprised grunt filled his ears -- Rodney, oh Rodney -- followed by a chuckle, low and rumbling. The cock gave a gentle thrust, and he hummed.

It took several seconds for the dicks to fall into the same rhythm, but when they did... it was heavenly. Wilson couldn't believe how hot this was, beyond his fantasy, beyond any of his wildest dreams. Motion, bulk, strength, power, musk, grunts, groans. He thought he might come just from this, and then a mouth closed around his erection.

That mouth, the one he knew better than his own. It was tart, sharp, bitter at times, but he got to experience its sweet side. Delicious, talented...

Hell! Too much, too much, too much, and he couldn't warn anyone, pinned as he was. He could only stiffen and grunt, whine around Rodney's cock as he shot into House's mouth.

"Fuckin' --" John groaned and sped up his thrusts.

Rodney tried to pull away. "Did I -- Are you --" Wilson clamped onto his ass and sucked his dick deep, quelling that protest.

"Fuck him hard," House ordered, between sucked-in breaths. "That's what he -- unh -- wants."

House was jacking off over him; John was pounding his ass; Rodney was letting go and face-fucking him for all he was worth. If he'd ever been capable of multiple orgasms, this would've been the time.

The moans of the three men around him, as they succumbed one after the other to their orgasms, satisfied Wilson to the core of his soul.

He couldn't imagine a better way to greet the day.


Five orgasms in under thirty-six hours had to be a record for Rodney, he reflected. At least since the Marathon of Masturbation when he'd been fifteen and had the house to himself for an entire weekend.

He ought to be, he thought as House and James bickered over where to get lunch and Sheppard watched them like he should be munching popcorn, exhausted. But he wasn't exhausted; he was jazzed.

Everything seemed bright and new and clear. James was charming and utterly sexy -- should've been a blond, that would've been about the only thing better. House was a complete pain in the ass, but nobody could call him stupid, and the way he made James' eyes light up was something to behold. And Sheppard... John.

Rodney had found him hot from the moment he'd first laid eyes on him in that underground lab in Antarctica. Finding out he was also smart, and funny, and incredibly loyal, a true teammate and real friend, had been amazing. They got each other, and adding sex on top of that was the bow on the package, the icing on the cake.

But this weekend something even more special about John had emerged. He seemed more comfortable now, more open. He'd blossomed, and oh God, Rodney was absolutely, thoroughly gay now, wasn't he? John was a special flower, and Rodney was a nelly queen. God.

It chafed him until The Great Takeout Debate wound down and a menu was thrust into his hands to peruse. Musings later; food decisions now.

The thought came back to him, though, once House and James had headed out the door and he was alone with John again. John looked at him, openly admiring, and slid a hand into Rodney's back pocket.

"Hey there," John said affectionately, and that was all it took to make Rodney jump him.

Rodney's hands in that gorgeous hair, John's hands large and commanding on his ass, their mouths locked together. Rodney smashed them into the nearest wall and ground their hips together, moaning all the while.

"Rodney," John groaned. Button-fly jeans were the work of the devil, so Rodney didn't bother to reply.

"Rodney," John repeated, more stridently this time, but Rodney had his hand on a delectable cock and was falling to his knees. He'd rather get his tongue on that tender skin than use it for anything else. John wasn't fully erect, but Rodney would get him there.

He was surprised when John's thumbs dug into his jaw, forcing him to tilt his head up. "What?"

"I don't understand," John replied, looking intently into Rodney's eyes, "why we have to do this so fast."

Rodney sighed. Usually Sheppard kept up better than that. "They'll be back from the restaurant soon, and I want to be done by then. It might be embarrassing for them to catch us, don't you think?"

Chuckling, John slid his hands down to Rodney's arms and tugged him up, enveloping him in a hug when he was back to his feet. "First of all, we know they like watching, and second, why the hell do you think they went together? It doesn't take two grown men to carry four containers of Thai food."

Rodney pulled back a fraction. "Four? I thought we got appetizers in addition to the entrees."

John shook his head and fitted them comfortably against each other again. "There'll be enough food, Rodney. My point was that they went together to give us some alone time."

"Alone time to have sex," was Rodney's eminently reasonable conclusion.

"How many times have we had sex in the past day and a half? I don't think that was it."

Point taken. "Well, what then?"

John shrugged with one shoulder, looking more adorable than Rodney was willing to admit. "To, to, I don't know, fold laundry or have an argument, or whatever it is that out couples do when they get time together."

Thinking for a moment, Rodney had to agree that made a certain degree of sense. "Maybe to talk."

John's expression grew tight and worried. "Do you think that was it?"

"Don't make faces; it gives you wrinkles." Rodney poked at him in annoyance. "Probably it was to talk about, you know, private things."

"Like what?"

"How we're feeling about this whole arrangement."

Looking slightly horrified, John said vehemently, "No."

"Yeah, I don't want to talk about that either." Rodney shook his head, and re-settled his arms around John's waist. "I'll let you know if anything's not working for me."

"Hey, they're doctors. If something's not working for you, they can get you some blue pills."

Pulling back, he moved them both toward the couch. "Ha, ha, very funny. You are a laugh riot."

John snickered but moved with him, and soon they were settled on the couch, John's arm around his shoulders and his hand on John's thigh. Comfortable.

"We could talk about them," Rodney pointed out. "Compare techniques or something."

"And listen to you rave about the handsome and talented James Wilson? No, thanks."

Rodney tilted his head to get a look at John's face. Jaw clenched, worrying his lower lip... "You're jealous!"

"Of course I'm jealous. You went on a fricking date with him, Rodney."

"You were invited, too," he pointed out.

Still doing his version of a pout, John shrugged. "I didn't realize it'd be like that."

This was something different. "He's... nice," Rodney explained. "Funny. You know that; you're the one who spent all of Friday night flirting with him."

"I was being charming, as I said, and it's not the same," John declared in his highly annoying "I know best" voice.

High horses, Rodney hated them. And, yes, kettle-pot, black, and all that, but honestly. "You're also the one who has the Kirk complex --"

"That's different," John protested. "It's nothing serious. It's not anything like how I feel for--" The handsome lips clamped shut, the striking eyes wouldn't meet Rodney's, and Rodney had figured it out.

"Green looks good on you," he said with a smile and a firm caress across the top of John's thigh.

John still wouldn't look at him, but the shoulder bumping affably into Rodney's back said everything. On the strength of that, Rodney decided to push his luck. "You know that the 'no telling secrets' rule doesn't apply between us, right? I don't mind when you share with me. As long as it's not too much, but frankly, I don't foresee us being in any danger of that."

"Yeah, I know," John replied. "And probably not."

They spent the next several minutes just sitting together. James had left the stereo on, and something jazzy was coming from it, filling the room peaceably.

"I've been thinking," Rodney eventually said, because he was apparently the girl in the relationship, "that it was nice of House and James to let us stay this weekend. And, you know, to have all the hot sex with us and everything. So we should probably do something for them."

John squeezed his shoulder. "Believe it or not, I was thinking about that, too. And I've got an idea."

"Flowers?"

"What?" John looked at him with clear distaste for that idea. "No. Something House would actually appreciate. It's going to involve some back pain for you, though."

"How? Bondage? Sleeping outside?" When a sudden thought struck him, he had to suck in a breath. "Oh, God, it's not moving furniture, is it?"

Sheppard laughed at him and ruffled his hair while getting up from the couch. "No. Better than that. Come on."


In the hour after lunch, the place was somehow transformed from the Sex Club of Central Jersey to Sleepy Time Snooze-o-Rama. House played it off like he was completely put out by the turn of events -- he had a rep to maintain -- even though secretly he was relieved by the break. He'd driven Wilson to barricade him out of the master bedroom, so he had to settle for a quick siesta on the living room couch instead.

He'd drifted off for some undetermined period of time when something caught his attention and brought him back to wakefulness. Hm. The music from the family room was neither expert enough to be coming from the stereo nor clunky enough to come from Wilson's ham-handed fumblings. House went to investigate.

"What are you doing?"

McKay glared at him haughtily, fingers still moving across the keys. "Were you dropped on your head as a child? It's obvious I'm playing."

There was the arrogant son-of-a-bitch House had met Friday night. He hadn't been around much since then. House had kind of missed him.

"Don't get sassy with me," House ordered, and shoved him over on the bench to make room.

"Don't ask stupid questions," McKay retorted, as House dropped down next to him.

"It's my piano."

McKay stretched across House to add a wholly unnecessary high trill to the music. "Half James' piano, and he said I could."

Hmph. "Joint use of marital assets" was House's scam; it was beyond annoying when Wilson pulled it on him.

He sat next to McKay for a while, listening and watching the trip of McKay's fingers across the keys. The first song transitioned into another, wearyingly similar to the first. "Is Brahms all you know?"

McKay harrumphed. "It's been a while, and I'm going from memory."

"The waltzes are boring."

"Shut up." Irritation was driving McKay's playing louder -- past forte to fortissimo.

House shouted over the powerful notes, "Any half-talented ten-year-old --"

"I said shut up." The notes faded to a more moderate volume, but the tempo was still staccato, McKay's tension showing in each note.

"You're playing like you're scared," House observed.

"I am not," McKay insisted, head bowed, shoulders stiff, gaze intent on his own fingers.

Definitely something there -- House had the scent now. He backed off for a few bars, listening. McKay's playing was precise but restrained: polite, almost apologetic. Math and music had the same intricate beauty of structure, and McKay had clearly shown his bold ardor for math, so there was no reason for him to be timid about music unless... "You got told to drop piano, didn't you?" McKay's knuckles tightened. "Told you were technically proficient but had no passion."

"Shut up," McKay muttered, the superfluous confirmation of House's diagnosis. Somehow the victory didn't seem as sweet as usual, and House fidgeted on the seat.

Finally the restlessness got to him -- nothing to do with the twist of disappointment on McKay's face, definitely not -- and he huffed an impatient sigh. "The waltzes are boring; let's play something else. Ever tried the Hungarian Dances?"

"No." The music faded away as McKay's fingers stilled.

"Hands up," House ordered with a bump to McKay's elbow. "My turn."

No. 7 in F major was a favorite of House's: one minute, thirteen seconds of rolling, lively flourishes, pure joy in movement.

"Not bad," McKay conceded when House was done.

Amused, House raised an eyebrow and jerked his chin. "Ass up."

"Pardon me?"

"I've got sheet music in the bench." Barely waiting for McKay's butt to clear off, he opened the seat up to sift through the music. No, no, no, yes. "Here it is. Try No. 3 in F." He plunked the sheets on the tray and his rear back on the bench.

McKay looked at him skeptically before taking a seat again. "What's so special about No. 3?"

"Nothing." House shrugged and put on his most innocent face. He'd picked it because it was the most formal of the dances, and the easiest in his opinion, but he wasn't about to tell McKay. It'd been a long time since he'd had the opportunity to play any of the pieces four hands, as a duet, and it looked like he had a shot with McKay, if the guy would loosen up a little.

McKay was still eyeing him, so House glared him down. "Just do it."

McKay sighed as if he was doing House an enormous favor, but finally consented to put his fingers on the keys. The opening bars came out stiff, and a missed note at one point threw McKay's timing off for several seconds until he brought it back around again. But there was energy there, and feeling, and whoever had been unable to hear that under the precision was a damn idiot.

Wilson drifted in from somewhere and sat down in a chair to listen. When the last notes sounded and McKay drew his hands off the keys, Wilson clapped enthusiastically. Sap. McKay seemed to like it, though, so House refrained from undercutting them.

He really wanted to play four hands.

Wilson nodded a head toward House. "Why did that sound familiar?"

"It's one of Brahms' Hungarian Dances."

"Oh, I remember." Wilson beamed like he'd won a prize. Sheesh. "There's one of those I really like. Which one is it?"

"No. 8." House flipped through the sheet music to the right page and began to play.

About thirty seconds in, Sheppard appeared and slumped against the piano. "That reminds me of Tom and Jerry."

"Philistine," McKay sighed.

"He's not that far off," Wilson countered. "No. 5 of the Dances gets played in a lot of movies, right?"

House nodded and stopped his song. Time to move on. "Yep, that's the one everyone's heard. I've got it for four hands." He flipped through the sheet music to the right spot. "McKay, you get the low end."

"And you're on top?" McKay asked with a twinge of sarcasm.

"Always."

It wasn't brilliant -- they wouldn't be invited to Carnegie Hall any time soon -- but it wasn't bad for a first time together. McKay knew how to follow surprisingly well for a man with that general sense of self-importance. When they finished, Sheppard had slouched his way over to Wilson's chair, and the two of them were staring raptly.

"Keep going," Wilson insisted.

No. 1 for four hands was next -- a little longer, a little more complex, and by the time they reached the final bars, House and McKay had hit a groove. Back and forth, anticipating each other, moving in sync. The final chords had Wilson and Sheppard applauding, the simpletons.

Next to him, McKay stretched his arms. "Wow, it's been a while," McKay sighed, clenching and releasing his hands rapidly. "My fingers got a workout."

Tantalized, House grabbed McKay's right wrist, stilling the movement, and sucked McKay's index finger into his mouth. It was almost trembling on his tongue, and House enjoyed the sensation as he let it slowly slide back out across his lower lip.

"Um," McKay said, stunned but obviously interested.

"Not too tired, are they?" House changed his grip on McKay's wrist to run his thumb along the strong pads of McKay's palm. "Because now that they've played my piano, I wanted to see how well they could do on my organ."

McKay's face twisted into exasperation, an expression House was warmly familiar with. "House, seriously. That is so bad. You have the worst --"

Surging forward, House kissed him thoroughly. McKay responded immediately, opening up, letting him in. Being twisted sideways on the narrow bench was awkward, but he didn't care, and McKay obviously didn't care. Hands in each other's pants, tongue in each other's mouth, it was vivacissimo, con brio.

Molto crescendo, and they were left panting, chests heaving, foreheads pressed together just to keep them upright.

Sheppard and Wilson's duet wasn't quite as proficient, but seemed to satisfy them anyway.


Wilson decided on a roast chicken for dinner, with grilled fresh vegetables and rice pilaf. When he got back from the store -- Sundays at four o'clock was when they replenished the produce -- House was engrossed in an episode of Mythbusters and John and Rodney were nowhere to be found.

"Out in the workshop," House informed him, eyes never leaving the screen. "They wanted to borrow some of our tools for something."

"You didn't ask for what?" Wilson found that surprising; House generally felt the same possessiveness over his tools that he did over his piano, his bike, and his drugs.

House shrugged, then squinted at something happening in his show. "McKay seems to know his way around a pair of micro-pliers, and they're both well aware that I'll kill them if they screw anything up. So unless they're building me a sex swing, I don't care."

If House was content, then so be it. Wilson left him to his TV show and went to put the groceries away.

Dinner was simple but well-appreciated, and John and Rodney even did the dishes. Wilson tried to nudge House toward the kitchen to help, but just got a mumbled free labor-gift horse retort and a pinched ass for his trouble.

He had retreated to the family room and was two pages into a journal article when John ushered House in and deposited him on the couch. They were followed in short order by Rodney, hiding something behind his back. John and Rodney stood side-by-side, grinning conspiratorially, and Wilson wondered what they were up to.

"So," John said. "We were thinking."

House gave Wilson a look and said, "Maybe they were working on a sex swing."

"No," Rodney said, "not a sex swing. Better." He and John grinned for a long moment, almost bouncing in excitement, which Wilson found endearing and House seemed to find irksome.

"Get on with it," he snapped.

"We have a present for you," Rodney continued. "A loaner present, for this evening only, unfortunately. You have to give it back, for a variety of reasons, one of which is that you don't have the right battery charger for it, and another is that we're pretty sure you can't turn it on it by yourself, and the most important of course is that we could be stripped of security clearance and fired for even showing it to you."

What in the world? Wilson thought, thoroughly mystified.

"What Rodney's trying to say," John said with a small smile, "is thank you. And here." He grabbed the object from behind Rodney's back and thrust it in House's direction.

"What the hell is this?" House asked as he turned the thing over in his hands. Wilson leaned over to get a better look. It was a dull silver, about ten inches long, made of what looked like a flexible metal mesh. House unfolded it into a rectangle about fourteen inches wide and stared down at it, twisting it back and forth. He seemed as lost as to what it was as Wilson.

John came up to House and took the item from him. "It's a -- well, muscle wrap, I guess would be the best term. When you put it on and activate it, it --" He looked at Rodney, who took up the explanation.

"Acts as a brace, and a heat source for relaxation. No pain medicine or anything in it, as far as we can tell, but by providing that support it relieves a lot of tension and ache. I use it for my back, and we thought, hey, with a little adaptation, it could work on House's thigh."

They looked at House expectantly, and Wilson looked as well. He had no clue how House would respond to this. House hated talking about his leg, hated anyone acknowledging his disability, and hated getting help. But on the other hand, he hated being in pain far more, and if this could help...

House looked at the wrap skeptically, then brought his gaze to John and Rodney's faces in turn, scouring them for... the catch, Wilson supposed. The trap in this show of generosity.

"How do you turn it on?" he asked, and Wilson let out a sigh of relief. He was going to accept it.

House stripped down and John and Rodney helped him get it situated on his thigh. Then John rubbed a finger over some kind of switch, and the wrap glowed for a second. House's eyes widened. "That's... odd," he said.

"Take a step," Rodney urged.

Leaning heavily on his left leg, House slowly lifted his right and placed it a few inches forward. Wilson had to resist the urge to stretch a hand out to steady him. Rodney and John seemed to have no such compulsion; both had their hands behind their backs and were smiling smugly.

House gingerly placed some weight onto his right leg, and then looked up at Wilson in surprise, eyes gleaming. "Is --" Wilson began, but then House was quickly pushing onto his right, standing straight.

"It works," House said.

"Well, of course, it works," Rodney replied, his chest thrust out proudly.

"And now for the second part of your present," John said with a smile. "Time to go work out."

Twenty minutes later they were in one of the hospital's rooms for physical therapy, hauling mats out to cover the floor. With House safely out of earshot, Wilson asked John, "And what exactly are you going to do again?"

"Work out," John replied. "I noticed House used to be into sports, and thought with the injury he was probably missing it some. I know I would be."

"You think he can run with that on?" Wilson asked, glancing at House, who was clearly enjoying the strength in his thigh.

"Yep, think so."

"But what are the mats for?"

John smiled as he dropped the last one into place. "I wasn't really planning on running. I've got a little one-on-one training regimen I thought House might enjoy going through."

"What, you're going to spar with him? Like martial arts or something? He's out of practice; you'll hurt him."

Amused -- to Wilson's alarm -- John popped Wilson one on the shoulder. "It might hurt a little bit, but that's half the fun." Wilson glared at him, but John remained unruffled. "He's a grown man; he can tell me when it's too rough."

House joined them, with Rodney trailing right behind. "What's first?" House asked eagerly.


John took House through a warm-up of aerobic exercise to get the heart rate up and some stretching before demonstrating some techniques for unarmed combat. He stayed away from throws and kicks -- no sense pushing their luck -- but holds, strikes, and blocks seemed fair game.

He'd expected House to enjoy himself, but John hadn't thought he'd be quite that eager. House picked up on most of the moves immediately, obviously re-learning them rather than seeing them for the first time. John felt himself start to grin; he wasn't quite as much into fighting as Ronon, but he still loved a good workout.

Several minutes and several good pins into it, Rodney called from the sidelines, "Hey, look what I found."

Keeping an eye on House -- a sneaky bastard, John had discovered, who pressed every single advantage -- John glanced over to where Rodney was holding up a handful of two-foot rods. "Nice," John said and gestured for them to be brought over.

They were padded and sturdy, slightly heavier than Teyla's fighting sticks but well-balanced. "Weight-lifting without the weights," House commented, which made sense in a physical therapy room.

John tossed two to House and then dropped into an opening stance, ignoring both Rodney's hasty exit from the improvised ring and James' disapproving grunt.

"Let's go," he said, and House was right there with him. Thrusts, parries, feints -- the man was a natural. John pushed harder, looking for weaknesses, openings, something he could use. With Teyla or Ronon, he was usually just trying to build his strength and skill, and not get his ass kicked, but this today was turning into something else.

As he clashed into House, defending with his left and slamming down toward House's shoulder with his right, he felt a flame building behind his eyes.

He was angry.

The realization broke his concentration for a moment, allowing House to shake him off and start circling. "What are you fighting for?" House asked, hands held low and ready, eyes gazing steadily into John's.

"It's a living," John countered and feinted right.

House anticipated the move, and continued to circle. "I'm a drug-addicted old cripple who's never done this before; you have absolutely no need to be putting in all this effort. And yet you are. What are you fighting for?"

The bastard was looking for openings of his own. John wasn't inclined to give him any. Striking forward with three short jabs -- shoulder, waist, thigh -- that House had to squirm to parry, John shot right back, "What are you fighting for?"

"Easy: to keep what's mine."

John glanced quickly around. No Rodney, no James. Which he'd known. He'd been focused on the workout -- the fight -- with House, but still he'd sensed them leaving. Probably to get a cup of coffee, right? Because James couldn't watch, being too worried about House getting hurt. Not to have sex; against the rules. Not to fool around, not to kiss, not to spend time alone together --

He swung, twisted his wrist, got the tip of his stick in between House's palm and House's stick and yanked. Same move, other side, and House was disarmed. Chest heaving, hands up and open, House stood in front of him defenseless, and it took every bit of John's will not to knock him to the ground and start punching.

"What are you fighting for?" House asked, voice quiet and dangerous.

John closed his eyes for a moment and tried to breathe the way Teyla had taught him.

House's shot bark of a laugh startled him, but he kept his expression calm. He thought he managed to, at least.

"You don't have to worry about us," House said, amused, bending down to where his sticks had fallen. "The only one standing in your way is you."

"When did you turn into a mystic guru?" John muttered.

"A good horse runs even at the shadow of the whip," replied House with a grin. "Come on. I want to get some more exercise in before Wilson comes back and starts whining that I'm over-exerting myself."


Wilson was barely able to keep himself from flinching as John took House through the workout. When the sticks came out, he had to leave; he'd spent too much of his life trying to keep House safe to watch the man willingly put himself in harm's way (again).

"He's not in any danger," Rodney said patronizingly as he followed Wilson out of the PT room. "I mean, good God, I do that exercise. With Ronon and Teyla, who are much better at it than John. No offense to him."

Wilson didn't bother trying to explain, just led the way to the lounge and the foosball table. After winning three games in a row, he felt better, although Rodney was now sulking. Tough. Wilson had long ago developed a strong immunity to petulance, and he was smiling as he and Rodney re-entered the PT room.

The workout seemed to be winding down, the movements getting slower and less heated. When it was over, there was a light in House's eyes that Wilson hadn't seen for years, and it ripped a shred off Wilson's heart. That light should have been his; he should've given it to House. Instead, this stranger with his smug security and his nightsticks and his stupid hair had done it: made House happy.

It was absolutely the wrong response, but he could feel his brow furrowing, his lips turning downward. Wilson had been pick-axeing this mountain for years, back-breaking labor under an unforgiving sun, and Sheppard swooped in and pulled out the fucking Hope Diamond. Fucking bastard.

But before Wilson's lips could move too far they were caught, none too tenderly. There were thumbs under his jaw, and strong fingers digging into the back of his neck, and House smelled like a locker room. It was glorious.

"Did you see me?" House mumbled against his lower lip. "Good, wasn't I?"

Wilson couldn't reply because his mouth was far too busy, but his heart knitted right back together. House wanted his approval. It was a connection House had always been too indifferent (too scared) to ask for.

Wilson pulled his mouth away from House's -- it took more force and more will than expected -- and slid his cheek against House's, the sweat easing his way. "You were great," he said warmly into House's ear, and that might just have been the corner of House's grin pressing against Wilson's neck.

Their bodies were molded together, fitting perfectly as always, but the pressure from House was different somehow. Not stronger. Not more insistent -- House had always had insistent down to an art. It's even, Wilson realized, and he had to draw in a breath.

He reached down to House's right thigh to touch the foreign metal there. "This is?" he asked, not knowing how to express his thoughts.

"Almost as good as the ketamine," House replied. "You saw me; you saw how strong it is. It lets me move any way I want, no hesitation." Pressing a kiss into Wilson's neck, House started to laugh. "It's so incredible, you can't even imagine it."

He couldn't know how it felt, of course, but he could try... and he could share House's elation. "There's no pain?"

House shrugged and started inching Wilson backward, keeping them wrapped together. "No, there's pain, but it's like a tension headache instead of a migraine. Manageable. And very, very easy to ignore when I have something else to focus on." One roll of House's hips made it clear what he intended to focus on next.

"Here?" They'd fooled around at the hospital before, behind closed doors late at night with no one around, kisses and quick over-the-clothes groping. Tonight, though, House was clearly not planning to stop at third base.

Still moving them along, House pulled him closer. "Here. McKay says the batteries on this thing have less than a half-hour's worth of juice left. I want to use the time fucking you into next week, not driving our asses home."

A thrill ran through him, giving him shudders. "House," he moaned.

"I want to fuck you standing." House ducked to nip at Wilson's trapezius. "If you were eighty pounds lighter, I'd wrap your legs around my waist and fuck you against the wall, thrusting up into you and watching you come undone."

Wilson could feel it; holy hell. It'd never work; they were the wrong proportion to each other; but fuck. To look down on House slamming into him, while the wall scraped against his back... He'd be dreaming about it for weeks.

"Instead," House continued, teeth still nipping, hands clutching at Wilson's hips, "I'm going to bend you over a weight bench and take you from behind. Put your ass in the air and pound away, hitting your prostate every time but not touching your dick, until you beg me for mercy."

"Fuck," Wilson moaned. Fuck, fuck, he couldn't think. Where was the goddamned lube? He didn't want to be a woman; he most definitely didn't; but built-in lubrication would've been a godsend right about now. House was going to fuck him, fucking claim him, and of course he was already House's, of course, but this was primitive, primal. Basic.

He attacked House's mouth, kissing, licking, nipping. House's tongue against his was a revelation, all-consuming ecstasy, and he forgot for a moment how much there was left to do before they could get to the fucking House had described.

Someone else had remembered though, because new hands were at Wilson's waist, struggling to make their way in between House's torso and his.

"A belt on a weekend? Seriously?" Rodney said. "What a pain in the ass this is."

"Sweats, much easier," John said, and Wilson could feel the slide of House's pants being lowered. Then House's shirt was being tugged up, and they had to stop kissing for a few seconds as the fabric came between them. Rodney used the opportunity to shove House's hips back and get Wilson's belt undone, and Wilson shivered at the broken contact.

Then the shirt was gone, and Wilson's pants were on their way to being gone, and he and House were clashing up against each other again, molding, and melding, and Wilson was on fucking fire. There was some stumbling as they were helped out of their shoes, but House's slick finger was already in Wilson's anus, grabbing him, preparing him. Fire.

House's tongue sliding away from his was a sad loss, but then Wilson was turned and he saw the padded bench. Here, they were here, it was going to happen right now. House bent him and he resisted, just enough to make it fun, to make House work for it, and House obliged, putting force into it.

Wilson grunted happily as his cheek hit the padding. His ass was in the air, exposed, and the blood was rushing to his head. Then House was pushing in, steadily, strongly, evenly, and oh fuck. It burned -- he'd been too fucking eager to protest when the prep stopped too soon -- and hurt, but he wanted it so badly. So very, very badly.

All the way in and -- astonishingly -- all the way out. He whined and tried to push up to bitch House out, but he was shoved back down, and House pushed back in, cock slicker and smoother. Wilson was able to devote two brain cells to gratitude until House sped up his thrusts and Wilson devolved to the reptilian brain. Pure reaction to stimuli, to the sensations of House. Instinctual urge to push himself up the jagged slope of pleasure, to crawl and claw his way to that peak, and come, come, come.

House was beating a tattoo, strong and fervent, striking the bundle of nerves deep in Wilson's ass every time, just as promised. Wilson felt like screaming out his ecstasy, and maybe he did, because House shuddered a zig-zag thrust and somehow sped up. When House's hand closed around the base of his dick and squeezed, Wilson saw spots, and when that vise slid up to the head and pinched, his eyes spun dizzily and his spine exploded.

His orgasm lasted a year and a half, and by the time he was done, House was too, though still inside him. House yanked him up, slammed his back against House's chest, and fuck, that was weird; he hadn't realized House's dick could bend to that angle. They teetered for a second before House pulled out with an awkward twist. Wilson overbalanced -- his legs felt as weak as a colt's -- and knocked them both over into a heap.

"Well," John drawled from his seat against the wall, "you had a 10.0 on that routine until you screwed up the dismount."

"Shut up," Rodney admonished, his head tucked onto John's shoulder. "It was hot."

House had disentangled himself and moved them both to a more comfortable resting position, Wilson stretched out on his back with House's head on his chest. When he pulled up to stare at John, Wilson grunted unhappily and tugged him back down.

"Did you seriously just make a gymnastics analogy?" House asked as he settled back on Wilson. "You are so gay."

"Says the man who a minute ago licked his husband's semen off his fingers."

"Speaking of," House said lazily, "are you going to invite us to the wedding ceremony or only the honeymoon?"

"What?" Wilson asked, but Rodney waved him off.

"Another of House's 'jokes,' I'm sure. Such a stellar wit; I'm surprised you haven't lost him to the comedy club circuit," he said, completely missing the look that passed between John and House.

As John tucked his arm tighter around Rodney's form, Wilson nudged House's head and said very quietly, "I thought spilling secrets was against the rules."

"Like I'm ever one to follow the rules," House replied with a smirk, and Wilson had to laugh in his contentment. They lingered a few minutes more, until Wilson started to feel antsy that someone with a key might come by. He poked and prodded House up onto the PT bench and then found their clothes in the corner where Rodney and John had chucked them.

As they dressed, he noticed House was moving much more stiffly. "Is the device not working?" he asked.

Grimacing slightly, House shook his head. "Battery must be dead."

"Huh," Rodney said. "A few minutes off from what I'd calculated. I wonder if weight affects --"

"Rodney," John interjected, dropping an arm around his shoulders. Wilson kept his amusement to himself and bent to tie his shoes.

"Oh, yes, well." Rodney jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "You didn't bring your cane, but I saw some in the storage room where the sticks were. Want me to get you one?"

"No," House said, pressing a hand into Wilson's shoulder to help himself up from the bench. "It's OK. Wilson doesn't mind me leaning on him."

No, Wilson most certainly didn't; although up to this point, House had seemed to mind doing the leaning.

Wilson stood up, carefully enough not to knock House over and quickly enough not to insult him by over-emphasizing the caution. It was easier to do than he might've imagined, and House's arm draped over his shoulder wasn't heavy at all.

As they followed John and Rodney out of the hospital, several steps behind, Wilson let his arm tighten around his husband's waist. "I love you, Greg House," he said warmly.

"Damn straight you do," House replied, and they walked to the car in step.


Looking down into their luggage, Rodney sighed. He couldn't believe how much crap Sheppard had somehow managed to shove into this duffle back in Atlantis. Getting it all back in was going to involve bending the fabric of space, apparently.

Well, he wasn't going to put any of it into Rodney's bag, that was for sure. Rodney had too many important and delicate -- wait a minute.

"Sheppard, did you get the muscle brace back from House?"

"Yeah." Kicked back on the bed, Sheppard was too absorbed in his comic book to even look up. Nice.

"So where is it?" Rodney probed.

Sheppard gestured vaguely, still not looking up. "In the bag."

"Which one? Yours or mine?"

"My bag. At the bottom, wrapped in a sweatshirt."

Grr. "Why did you put it in there? It's mine; it should go in my bag."

Sheppard finally got his lazy ass up and joined Rodney by the luggage. He grabbed Rodney's hand and shoved it into the duffle, where Rodney could feel the shape of the brace. "I put it in my bag so I could be sure I didn't forget it. What does it matter anyway?"

Snatching his hand back, Rodney glared at the doofus. "Now your stuff doesn't fit in your bag, so all our things are mixed up, and it'll be a pain sorting it all out back on Atlantis." Duh.

"Speaking of that," Sheppard said, flopping back onto the bed and leaving the rest of the packing to Rodney. "Remember those family-style quarters we found in the third tower?"

"The ones you wouldn't let me move into, even though I have a clear need for more space given all the equipment I use for my work, because senior staff have to set a good example for their juniors by living in the same crappy cramped rooms?"

"Yeah, those," Sheppard said nonchalantly. Rodney resisted the urge to slug him one, and went back to the packing with a vengeance.

"They're all two-bedroom quarters," Sheppard continued, "so Lorne and I were thinking that we'd have the new recruits coming in next week live there. You know, ease the transition by having them bunk together, give them someone to share the experience with."

"Like first year at university?" Rodney had hated his roommate, little weasel, but still, having people around had eased some of the stress in the early days.

Sheppard nodded. "Like that. The thing is, though, as you said, senior staff have to set an example, so a couple of us should live there as well."

Great. Wonderful. Rodney shoved a shirt into the bag with slightly more force than was necessary. "I'm sure you and Lorne will have a grand old time sharing an apartment."

"Lorne?" Sheppard sounded confused, but Rodney didn't bother to look up from where he was very carefully jamming socks into place. "No, Lorne's going to stay in the old tower, near his team. I was thinking it should be really senior folks. Like, the head of military and the head of science."

Head of -- Could that possibly mean what he thought? Stock still, he turned his head toward Sheppard. John's eyes were wary and his lips were pressed together nervously. "Are you... asking me to move in with you?"

Lips still clamped shut, John nodded.

Straightening up, Rodney turned fully toward the bed. "And you don't think anyone will have a problem with it?"

"Examples are important," John said. "And there are two bedrooms, so who's to know who sleeps where?"

"True," Rodney replied, taking a step closer. "My equipment does need a lot of room."

"A lot," John echoed. He stood to meet Rodney and slid easily into Rodney's arms. "So bunking with me might be your best bet."

Nodding, Rodney replied solemnly, "It might." He held the serious expression for three and a half seconds before breaking into a grin and leaning in to brush his lips against John's.

"Yes, John," he said between kisses. "Yes, I want to move in with you." He felt, rather than saw, John's smile grow and wanted to kiss every millimeter of it.

"Aww, so touching," rang out from behind them, and Rodney groaned and dropped his head to John's shoulder. "Wilson!" House continued. "Grab the camera!"

"Shut up, House," John snapped.

"But this is so sweet." House pushed past them to flop on the bed. "I wonder if we've got white rice to throw."

"Shut up, House," Rodney groaned and pulled away from John to stuff the last few things in his bag. John's, his, it didn't matter; they'd be going to the same place. He looked up and caught a smile on John's face that presumably meant he was thinking the same thing.

House opened his mouth again but was cut off before his first syllable. "Shut up, House," Wilson warned as he entered the room. "You guys ready to go? Sorry we can't take you farther than the train station today, but I've got patients, and House... I don't think he's actually planning on working today, but he is supposed to at least show up at the hospital."

"Look at all that love and respect I get from my sweetie," House commented as he rose. "Sure you guys want to let yourselves in for that?"

Rodney looked at John and felt a warmth and safety he wasn't sure he'd ever felt before. "Why not?" he said.

John smiled and pulled him close. "Why not?" John concurred.