Work Text:
House, visibly tormented by his curiosity that normal people would call concern, limped through Wilson's hallway. His steps were relatively careful, a sharp contrast to the unapologetic, confident march he upheld in his weekly routine of breaking into people's homes.
His trip into now entirely Wilson's territory was accompanied by incoherent slurring from the kitchen. It was mixed in with sobs and occasional thuds against the kitchen table. House pressed his back against the wall and peeked inside to see exactly what he knew he'll see. A sight that is so human it made him sick.
Wilson processing grief. Eyes half-closed, fingers clinging desperately to a glass of whiskey, leaning over a photo of Amber in a swimsuit that he was smirking about just a week earlier. Or was it a month? Maybe just a few days. It's not like Wilson remembered. Currently he was in a place beyond time, a sea of sorrow that left his throat burning.
He sobbed again, letting a couple of tears fall down and soak the picture. Wilson raised his eyelids just to look how salty tears fell on the piece of paper that suddenly became so precious to him.
House took a step further, hesitating. He wasn't trying to announce his presence just yet. Wilson's misery captivated him in a strange way: this is the exact thing he was always trying to save others from. He probably imagined relatives of his patients in this exact position, minus the creepy junkie doctor in the background, felt for them... Wilson saw it coming for them. But not for himself, not yet, not with Amber.
Greg's mind suddenly sharpened again as he looked closer to see Wilson's unzipped fly and his other hand caressing his soft member in a pretty pathetic attempt to erect it. He spent nearly a minute on doing so before giving up. Wilson leaned back, took a huge sip of whiskey, and closed his eyes.
It was only natural to crave relieve and quick pleasure in this situation. It wasn't surprising, wrong or weird. It was just not something House expected at the given moment. It made him take a step back.
The floor suddenly rattled under House's uncareful step. It caught Wilson's attention but only so slightly: he opened his right eye, barely catching a figure that quickly disappeared into his bedroom. Wilson tensed just enough to put his right hand on the table. But he was not in the mood to investigate what probably was just a group project of his drunkness and sleep deprivation.
House waited for any indication of movement in the kitchen. Got none. He nodded to himself, glancing across the bedroom with a very focused expression. Amber's pictures, her belongings, a new mattress, everything felt like she was going to be so soon he could already hear her telling Wilson off about his alcohol problem.
Keeping it all here like she was still there was probably hurting Wilson even more, House thought. He was desperate for a last touch, last "I love you". It wouldn't be enough, nothing would, but it was better than remembering her dying in her arms, seeing her beautiful eyes staring into the abyss.
Slowly House's gaze fell on a small, half-empty orange bottle of perfume on the nightstand. He picked it up, reading the label. Elixir de Merveilles by Hermes. Of course — mature perfume that just screamed confidence, women CEO's beloved scent. House opened it and smelled it.
So mature and serious, so rich and yet so perfectly balanced: notes of citrus and vanilla leaving a nice aftertaste beneath the scent of amber. It fit Amber so well, he could practically feel Cutthroat bitch's gaze on his back just from one sniff...
It made House freeze for five seconds, dramatically staring at the bottle, as if he just figured a medical mystery. To be fair, navigating social interactions wasn't much easier to him than his cases, just much less entertaining.
Suddenly he started spraying it all over himself. Neck, hair, wrists, chest, even his cane — he practically soaked himself with Amber's scent. Maybe this is what happens at funerals that makes people say "It's like she's still with us" — some of the guests bathing in the deceased one's perfume a few hours earlier?
As he limped to the kitchen, House grit his teeth, something in him hesitating, protesting, twirling in a very uncomfortable manner. But he slammed it with a mental fist of rationalization: after all, Wilson needs some comfort, right? There's no harm in that. That's what a good friend is supposed to do... That's what can put a "good friend" back on his place in Wilson's life. To claim him back.
House stared at confused Wilson who was replying with a vacant, tired gaze. His beautiful brown eyes were filled with so much sadness it was impossible to look anywhere else.
— House, I'm not in the mood for... jokes... Go away.
His speech was slow, slurred. Wilson probably wasn't even sure if he's conscious at this point, barely differentiating between reality and his thoughts.
— I'm going to play the sober one today. What are you doing, Wilson?
Wilson slammed his fist against the table violently, looking annoyed and trying to look indifferent. He was in no position to say he's fine, he knew it, it was pissing him off. He even forgot that his fly was still unzipped.
— You mocking son of a... Leave me alone!
Instead of replying anything witty or anything at all, House just walked past him. Wilson turned around, puzzled by his actions. And then it hit. Amber's perfume. It made Wilson tear up, wiping House's presence out of his brain immediately.
Wilson turned back to the table, trying not to cry, feeling exposed and vulnerable. And then he felt tender, intimate hug around his waist. Long, slender fingers drawing circles on his belly. Someone's breathing lingered his neck, sending a chill down Wilson's spine.
— House, what the fuck?!
It took a moment to register what's going on before Wilson let out a shocked, almost horrified yelp, jolting upwards immediately. But House saw it coming: he just held his friend tighter, forcing him to remain on the chair.
— House, let me go! House!
Wilson was almost begging already. He was completely stunned by what just happened. He felt angry, sick, violated. House's touch wasn't just unwanted, it was the grossest thing Wilson has ever felt. And he performed a surgery on many disgusting-looking tumors, dealt with the worst cases of cancer where his patients were already basically rotting (and smelled like this), was at numerous autopsies...
— House!
But House's gentle touch, his fingers slipping beneath Wilson's shirt, his lips tickling the back of his neck — it was a new, completely unexplored type of gross. In this moment of loneliness and trauma Wilson faced, House decided to do something like this. It was too much.
— It's okay, dear... I know you miss me.
Wilson struggled again, alcohol impairing his ability to stand up for himself or think rationally. Then House's words finally started making sense. His heavy breathing mixing with Amber's perfume, his teasing touch confusing poor man, everything mixing up together.
— House...?
Now it wasn't a scream or even a yelp. Wilson's voice was so weak, filled with so much grief.
— Don't think about me. Focus on Amber. You smell her? Calm down and smell it...
Wilson nodded. He tried to push House away but this time it was barely a shrug.
— You feel it?
House asked, his hands gently massaging Wilson's sides with circular motions. He let out a soft grunt, embarrassing himself with it.
— I...
— Don't talk. It will feel good. Don't ruin it. You earned it. You're always giving yourself away, take at least something yourself, okay?
House's voice grew sweet, he put an effort into making it softer. It was a shitty parody of Amber's tone, but on drunk and desperate Wilson it worked. He slowly leaned back. His body was still tense under House's touch but was starting to give in already.
«That's it? He's just that easy?» — thought Greg, wondering just is he really doing somerthing very wrong considering Wilson's reactions. Maybe not at all.
House reached for a towel nearby and slowly, tenderly wrapped it around Wilson's head, blindfolding him. This action met no resistance whatsoever and he took it as a sign of full consent. Wilson looked like a kicked puppy desperate for some love, how could HE say no?
— It's not your fault. You did everything right. It will get better...
House finally slipped his hands into Wilson's pants. He pressed tighter against his back and placed a tender kiss on his neck. Then another one. They were so warm, so gentle, so...
Wilson whined. Tears started flowing down his flustered cheeks freely. His sobbing quickly turned hysterical: in just seconds his blindfold was completely soaked with his tears.
— I love you, Wilson. Always will. I know you miss me...
House gripped Wilson's hardening shaft carefully and started working it. He rubbed it gently, traced his thumb over the tip all while his lips were covering Wilson's neck with a constellation of kisses.
Wilson knew it was House. But he felt Amber. He heard her. He smelled her. She was so close, so loving, so desirable, that nothing could make him refuse this illusion, nothing could make Wilson push him away and yell at him. Alcohol clouded his judgement, made it so much easier to pretend that this calloused hand is hers, that this gruff male voice is hers, that these kisses are placed by her lips, leaving traces of red lipstick all over.
He moaned, shaking under the touch, feeling the heart in his chest trying to beat through the ribcage. Swear started mixing with tears and Wilson felt his legs shaking. House groaned in his neck, lost in the moment no less than his victim.
It was a miracle for Wilson and it overwhelmed him. He didn't want it to stop all while knowing he should resist. He felt so dirty for feeling so good. He wanted to kill House for doing this to him. For betraying him in such a manner, for taking advantage of this situation. And he wanted to get on his knees and thank him for this escape from reality.
House kept massaging, rubbing, touching. Then he stopped for a few seconds. It made Wilson protest with a series of huffs. Then he heard the table being moved: with one swift motion, House pushed it away just enough for his next maneuver.
— Don't worry, honey, it will all be okay...
He sat on Wilson's lap, one hand twirling in his hair, wrapped tightly around the chair's back. His other hand moved back to his friend's member that was throbbing with need. House leaned in and kissed Wilson, releasing all his bottled-up frustration, repressed jealousy, hidden attraction to this man all at once. Wilson wrapped his arms around House tightly, at this point completely unaware of what's going on due to the intensity.
The intensity was something out of this world. The kiss left Wilson breathless: it was sloppy, raw, brutal and it was so like Amber's. House's tongue inside his mouth was making twists crazier than a breakdancing teenager on speed at the dance floor on his prom. Wilson was barely keeping up, moaning into the kiss.
House's hand kept working relentlessly. Finally, he pulled back from the kiss to take a deep breath and that's when Wilson left out a loud moan bordering on cry, cumming all over House's clothes.
Wilson was a mess. Emotionally and physically. Drunk, fucked out of his mind, broken with grief that will only intensify after this momentary illusion and now left to face the dark twist of his relationship with House.
House didn't let him think about this right now. He kissed Wilson on the lips gently, ruffled his hair and whispered something calming, something serious yet sweet, something reassuring, something so painfully Amber-like.