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It’s an uncharacteristically quiet afternoon at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, and it’s making Wilson paranoid.
He walks into his office, setting down a patient file on his desk and slumping down in his seat. He reaches for the book he’d been reading earlier- and. Oh.
House is on the couch opposite him, flipping through the pages of a slim, unassuming paperback, half of the pages tabbed. He looks up at Wilson with a sly look and points to the book. “Some really… insightful stuff here, Jimmy, I’ve always wondered what sort of stuff you read in your spare time, and I’ve gotta say, this didn’t disappoint.”
Wilson stares, his heart jolting, but keeping his expression blank. House is frighteningly perceptive, but there is no chance in hell that Wilson is going to let him figure this one out. “You- give it back.”
House tosses the book at him flippantly. “Didn’t know you were into poetry.”
Wilson groans and rubs his face. “I like his prose, okay? That’s it.”
House raises an eyebrow and nods slowly. “You’re in the car with a beautiful boy…” He starts to recite, before Wilson storms out, slamming the door behind himself.
Three days later, Wilson is lounging on House’s couch, eating the last of the Chinese food they’d ordered, watching the end credits roll for The Godfather, a familiar sight. House is refilling his glass of whiskey in the kitchen. House starts to speak, raising his voice so Wilson can hear him from the loungeroom. “….And he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done-“
“Stop that, House.” Wilson grumbles, around a mouthful of rice.
“Done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired.”
“Give it up, House.”
House shuffles back into the room and stands in front of Wilson, blocking the television set. “So… The pencil in the margins… Were those your annotations, or…?”
Wilson rubs his face with his hands and sighs. “What’s the goal here, House?”
House shrugs.
Wilson stands up. “I’m going home.”
“Jimmy-“
“What, Greg. What.”
House gives him a look, considering, the way he always does when he’s trying to figure something out.
“Going to have one of your goddamn epiphanies, or just keep standing there?” Wilson spits.
House looks down, avoids Wilson’s gaze, brow furrowed.
Wilson leaves. He drives back to his hotel. It’s late. He should have figured House was planning something, should have known he’d bring it up again. He thinks about the fact that House waited until they were alone in his apartment before bringing it up. He stops thinking about it.
House has joined a book club.
Wilson knows this because suddenly, House is carrying around a book, or two, everywhere he goes. Wilson recognises some - literary fiction, mostly classics, the sort of books that Wilson likes. The sort of literature that House has scoffed at, for as long as Wilson has known him. Is House trying to prove something - trying to make a point? Is this some sort of attempt to embarrass Wilson? Something like that. A sick, jittery, uneasy feeling settles deep down at the base of Wilson’s stomach. He stops bringing his own books to work. Stops reading outside of the safety of his home altogether.
Three months later, House hasn’t brought it up again, hasn’t brought his stupid book club books to work again. Wilson has tentatively begun to let himself read during his breaks again.
Wilson is laying on the couch in his office, legs kicked up over the armrest, halfway through his current read, when House barges in. Wilson glances up at him, disinterested.
House waves a book at him. It’s War of the Foxes. Richard Siken. ‘I’ve read every single one of this guy’s books. Wilson, you idiot. You ‘like his prose’? Bullshit! you’re pining! There’s no other explanation.”
Wilson stares at him.
“There’s no way you have a copy of the gayest book ever, heavily annotated and tabbed, just because you ‘like his prose’. You’re gay!” House points an accusatory finger at him.
Wilson sits up. “no, i’m not…?”
“Yes you are. Jeff.” House says, face twisted with that bitter mocking expression that James hates, and oh, it sends a thrill right through him.
“What?”
“You are Jeff.” House repeats, staring at him, and Wilson realises what he’s getting at.
“That’s… stupid. I’m allowed to like a book written by a gay man without being gay, House.”
“A gay poetry collection with gay annotations coverings the page of the gay poem about wanting to tell a man that you have gay feelings for him but are too ashamed?”
Wilson ignores this.
“Come on, just admit it. Admit it. Admit it, admit it, admit it.”
“Grow up.”
“Admit it. Admit it. Admit it. Admit it. Admit it. Admititadmititadmititadmitit.”
Wilson slams the door as he leaves.
Before he’s even made it to the break room, he feels a tapping on his shoulder, and whirls around, to a face full of House’s cane.
“I don’t care if you’re a homo, Wilson.” House says, hitting Wilson’s shin with his cane as he falls into step beside him.
“Well, good to know your thoughts on the matter, but I’m not one.” Wilson shuffles his files and shoots House a look.
House gives him a look right back - a jeering, teasing, indescribably irritating expression that says ‘you’re not fooling me.’
In response to House’s silence, Wilson continues, gesturing at nothing. “I mean, this is an absurd conversation to be having. You think, what, just because I read some poetry collection, I’m gay? Can’t a man try to broaden his literary horizons?”
House shrugs, guileless and giddy as Wilson speaks.
“Honestly, Greg, this whole situation is really telling of your closed-mindedness. At some point very soon in your life, you will need to accept that your biases and prejudices are no longer in line with the modern cultural zeitgeist.” Wilson announces, a finger raised in accusation.
“Woah, Jimmy, if there’s one thing I’m not, it’s prejudiced. I told you already, I don’t care if you’re a homo. I just want you to admit it.”
Wilson can feel his capacity for debate draining, and just shakes a fist at House halfheartedly. “Not a homo, and there’s nothing to admit.”
“You don’t have to admit anything, sure, that implies there’s something deviant about homosexuality. Which for the record, I don’t believe.” House adds with a self-congratulatory smirk. Oh, that fucking face. Wilson is going to go insane if he has to deal with another second of this godforsaken conversation.
“I’ve gotta go. Call me if you need a consult on a case.” Wilson says, abrupt, and briskly returns to his office.
Wilson is snapped out of his 3pm daydreaming by an irritating tapping on the glass of his window. He ignores it for a few seconds, then huffs and steps onto the balcony, broaching on House’s personal space the way he knows House hates, crossing his arms and refusing to back down.
“Consult on a case?” House asks, brow furrowed quizzically at Wilson’s behaviour, leaning back.
Wilson glares. “Don’t play dumb, House. We both know you never have anything to consult me about. I want this conversation to be over and I want you to stop trying to extract some perceived secret from me. There’s nothing to tell.”
House sighs dramatically and leans back on the balcony railing, arms crossed. He glares at Wilson, eyes piercing as ever. Wilson starts, begins to defend himself again, when House jolts and fumbles with a yelp, gripping his leg as his face crumples in pain.
“Shit,” Wilson dashes back to grab House’s pills, pressing the bottle into his hand and closing his fingers around it.
House pulls his hand back sharply and shoots Wilson a look, downing the pills with a shaky hand.
Wilson hovers, never quite sure how best to support House in flares like these. Knows there’s nothing he can do for the pain, wanting to help but unsure how House would react to his attempts at comfort. He opts for gripping House’s shoulder and waiting for him to speak.
“Let’s say that God is the space between two men and the devil is the space between two men,” House mutters, voice bitter and quiet. As if he doesn’t want his words to take form, doesn’t really want Wilson to respond.
Wilson pauses. What? “What?” He says, still, not wanting to spook House.
House gives him a sharp look, with an edge of something like panic, something like anger, like regret.
What the fuck? “House?”
House grabs for his cane and stalks past Wilson back into his own office, his head held low to avoid looking at Wilson’s face.
Wilson is still reeling from that afternoon on the balcony, still trying to figure out what House had meant, when he realises that House hasn’t spoken to him for a week. So, he lets himself into House’s apartment, and waits.
He jolts awake at the sound of keys in the lock, and runs a hand over his face, smoothing down his hair, checking his breath, before he even realises what he’s doing. He swallows, suddenly nauseous.
House stops for a moment when he registers the shape of Wilson sitting, tense, on his couch, then he walks past Wilson into the kitchen. Wilson waits until he hears House opening cupboards, and cautiously makes his way to the kitchen.
Not looking up, House pours two glasses of whiskey and downs his in one gulp, letting out a panting, gasping breath at the alcohol. He refills his glass and slides the other across the table. Wilson takes it without hesitating and leans against the countertop, watching House.
“So.” Wilson starts, tentative, trying to gauge House’s mood.
House rasps a hand over his stubble and looks up at Wilson, waiting for him to continue.
“Uh. Well… What’s up with you? I mean, this whole thing, the Richard Siken thing, everything. I don’t know what you’re doing with it all.” Wilson falters, feeling suddenly that he’s reading too much into it, exposing how much he’s been thinking about this.
House doesn’t say anything for a moment, but his expression is tense, like he’s been cornered. “That stupid goddamn poem.” He mutters.
“So it is about the poem!” Wilson jabs a finger in his direction.
House slams back another shot of whiskey and shakes his head at the burn. “Fucker, it’s all your fault,” he grumbles, “I can’t get that fucking poem out of my head.”
That’s different. “How so?”
“I have forgotten about God and I am very hungry,” House says, bitterly, a mocking bite in his voice, but it has that familiar self-deprecating sting.
“What’s that mean?” Wilson says, cautious.
“Fuck you.” House growls, and braces his elbows on the counter with his head in his hands. “You know. I read your annotations.”
Oh, God, what the hell is going on right now. Wilson is so out of his goddamn depth here.
“I don’t get it,” He says, bracing for more anger, but trying, trying so hard, to be understanding.
House pours himself another shot of whiskey, the rim of the bottle rattling loudly against the glass as his hands grow unsteady. “Fuck.” He swears, tipping the shot back. Wilson reaches across and takes the bottle, pouring himself a shot but not drinking it.
House’s hand follows the bottle, his fingers cold from the condensation as they brush against Wilson’s knuckles. He lets out a frustrated, growly whine and slumps against the table, tangling his hands in his hair in aggravation.
“What the hell is going on, Greg?” Wilson asks, voice firm.
“Come closer, I’ll whisper it in your ear…” House mutters sardonically, voice lilting; he’s still quoting something.
Honestly, fuck this. “Is that from Crush, too?”
House angrily gestures with his glass in Wilson’s direction. “Whole thing is stuck in my head. Pissing me off.”
“I thought you only remembered things that were important?” Wilson says, a sort of coldness to it. He’s not trying to start something, not exactly.
“Well it was important, I needed to remember it to tease you about it,” House bites, “But I can’t get it out of my fucking head.”
“Why not? You’ve done your teasing, you haven’t even mentioned it to me for weeks. Just forget it, why don’t you.” Wilson knows he’s snapping, but can’t find it in him to care.
“Not that simple. It’s like it’s eating at me, fuck.” House growls into his hands which cover his face, before they make their way to grip and tug at his hair. Wilson reaches out and gently pries them from his hair, a gesture which is returned by House gripping his wrists tight, desperate, before slapping him away.
Wilson raises his hands defensively and backs off, but then House is grabbing him again and tugging him closer and what the fuck, he tastes like liquor and cigarettes and metal and his stubble hurts, he’s going to give Wilson beard burn if he doesn’t pull back, but he’s not pulling back because Wilson is pulling him in and licking into his mouth gently. Wilson cups House’s jaw and coaxes his mouth open sweetly, but House has a different idea and shoves a rough, calloused hand - the one he holds his cane with - into Wilson’s trousers, seeking out a heavy warmth.
Wilson’s hips move toward this promise of pleasure but what the fuck. He shoves the hand away before it reaches his crotch and pulls back abruptly, looking into House’s eyes in search of a trace of anything aside from sincerity. House lets himself be pushed away, holds his hands up as if to say ‘it’s okay, I won’t touch until you let me,’ but hungrily looks down at Wilson’s lips all the same.
Taking a deep breath and rubbing his face, Wilson steps back and leans against the opposite counter, closing his eyes. He feels House follow and grasp his hips softly, bite at his neck, tilt his jaw up, and he lets it happen, gently returning the kiss, which is slower and more careful now. As if House is already catching on to how Wilson likes it.
“You’re not gay,” Wilson says into the kiss, a reminder more than a question.
“Neither are you.” House snorts, like it’s a joke they’re both in on. Wilson bites at House’s lip in response, so maybe it is.
House rests a hand on Wilson’s belt and rubs his thumb over the soft dark hair that trails down below it. “May I?” he asks with that sarcastic edge, like it’s a given; but he still doesn’t move his hands, not after Wilson nods, but only when he says ‘yes,’ alongside a little impatient grunt of affirmation. House kisses him as he pushes his thigh between Wilson’s legs, giving Wilson something to grind against, which Wilson happily accepts, letting out a pleased sound into the kiss. As he starts to rub himself on House’s thigh, though, House makes a confused sound and pulls back, grasping Wilson’s hips and looking down between them.
“You’re not into this?” He sounds a little annoyed.
Wilson shakes his head, mumbling “No, I like this,” and tries to steal a kiss, then pulls back as well when House doesn’t allow it.
“The hell is going on?” House grumbles, extracting himself from the tangles of their legs and crossing his arms. “You’re not hard.”
“Uh. What?”
“Why aren’t you hard,” House whines, annoyed. “Am I not hot enough for you.”
Wilson lets out a disbelieving laugh, “What?”
“You heard me, where the hell is your boner?” House grouches.
“House.” Wilson laughs and unzips his trousers, taking House’s hand and guiding it inside his boxers. House turns a lovely shade of deep red when he feels the familiar shape against his fingertips, and his index finger tentatively rubs up between the slick folds to find Wilson’s clit.
“Jesus.” House bites out, so turned on he can’t even look at Wilson, just carefully rubs his swollen clit between two fingertips. “Big,” is all he manages to say, before Wilson laughs at him and nudges his hand away again.
“Over the clothes,” Wilson says, stilted, always unsure how to explain himself in these situations.
House nods, eyes wide and curious, and gently moves closer to nudge his knee between Wilson’s legs, once again offering it for Wilson to rub against. Wilson almost falls against him as he begins to slowly drag his crotch along his thigh, kissing desperately into his mouth now. Then he suddenly pulls back and grins devilishly at House, which earns him a flushed and confused expression.
“What?” House asks.
“You were surprised I wasn’t hard. That mean you are?” Wilson teases, tracing a fingertip down from House’s lip all the way to the front of his jeans.
“Guh,” House responds, as Wilson cups his bulge. Then Wilson squeezes and House jolts, cupping his jaw and tugging him closer, panting into the kiss now, which has turned dirty and desperate and oh, fuck. Wilson drags him to the couch and pushes him back against it, checking briefly that the angle is okay for his leg. He tugs off his own trousers, leaving only his boxers, then crawls onto House’s lap to straddle him. He moans, a gravelly sound in his chest, as House grabs his ass and pulls their crotches together, holding him in place as they just grind back and forth. Wilson groans into the kiss and ruts against House desperately, panting heavily at the friction, before it becomes too much to handle and he jolts away, gasping against his shoulder as he takes a minute.
He reaches down to rub at House’s cock through the denim. “Can I take these off?” He asks against House’s lips, fingertips already eagerly tugging at his belt. When House nods wordlessly, Wilson leans down and kisses wetly over House’s fuzzy stomach, grinning at the way the muscles tense whenever he rubs House’s cock. He fiddles with the fly and manages to unzip his jeans, shoving a hand into House’s boxers and pulling his dick free.
Wilson sits back on his heels and grins down at House as he slowly jerks him off, watching as House’s hips jolt helplessly, his face flushed and mouth open. “You like that?” Wilson asks with a little smile, changing the angle of his wrist, leaning down for another kiss when House whines out a “yeah.”
Wilson leans back a bit to watch House’s reactions as he continues to stroke him, considering. “Did you do the last mandated STD screening?”
House nods, hips stuttering up into Wilson’s hand, his head falling back against the couch.
Wilson smiles and shuffles up on House’s lap, so that House’s cock nudges up against the front of his boxers. He squirms and rocks forward, his eyes closed as he seeks friction, panting quietly. He opens his eyes and sees that House is just staring at him, eyes wide and mouth open, and he thinks something is wrong for a brief, terrifying second before House gasps that he’s about to cum. Wilson abruptly tugs his hips back and away from House’s cock, not wanting whatever this is to be over just yet. He leans forward to press a placating kiss to House’s parted lips.
Wilson busies himself with tugging House’s jeans the rest of the way off, while he waits for House’s cock to stop twitching desperately, for his desperate whimpers to subside. When that happens, Wilson smiles and shifts back up to align their crotches, cheekily tugging his boxers to the side and allowing House to press his cock against Wilson’s clit.
Wilson jerks and buckles slightly at the contact, but then relaxes into the touch as House doesn’t move, allowing him to take it at his own pace. Wilson kisses House gratefully, hungrily, and reaches down to nudge House’s cock down, towards his pussy.
At this direction, House pauses and grips Wilson’s hips, uncertain. “You- contraception?” He falters, unsure if that’s something he needs to be concerned about here.
Wilson shakes his head. “Copper IUD,” he pants.
House nods and gently rocks forward, aligning his tip with Wilson’s entrance. He can’t help but reach out and stroke a fingertip over Wilson’s swollen pink clit, gently rubbing the underside and then slipping his fingertips down to spread Wilson’s lips. He nudges his cock against Wilson’s pussy and leans up to kiss him, letting Wilson rub against his cock.
Wilson moans and grinds back and forth, guiding House’s slick cockhead into his pussy. “Jeeeesus,” Wilson whines at the almost-intrusion, feeling his clit throb as the tip nudges against him, not able to slip fully in. He shifts his hips and kneels over House’s lap, bearing down to try and take House inside. House groans at the constant pressure and reaches out to steady Wilson’s hips, squeezing tight when Wilson manages to sink down onto House’s tip.
“Fuck,” Wilson bites out at the stretch, closing his eyes and rolling his hips down. “Need you to take over here.” He says, through gritted teeth, dropping his face into the crook of House’s neck.
House gladly obliges with a little grin and carefully guides Wilson down onto his cock, letting out a punched-out groan at the tight slick heat all around his cock. “Fuck, Wilson.”
Panting, face still hidden in House’s neck, Wilson smiles and tentatively rocks back and forth, clenching to try and make it good for House. “Yeah, this good? Tell me how you want it.”
Through gritted teeth and with closed eyes, House shakes his head. “Just- you do what you want. I’m good, I’m close, fuck.”
Grinning, Wilson begins to grind forward, rolling his hips to let House’s cock slip in and out with every rotation, clenching on the down-strokes. When House’s thighs begin to tremble and his stomach clenches beneath Wilson’s splayed palms, Wilson arches his back and picks up the pace, locking his gaze on House’s expression.
It happens so quickly; one second House’s face is screwing up in pleasure, the next his hips are helplessly thrusting up into Wilson’s waiting pussy, the next his cock is spurting and twitching deep inside as Wilson sinks down completely flush, wanting House to finish deep inside him. Wilson continues to rock slightly, gauging House’s level of overstimulation, until House grabs his hips and shakes his head, keeping him from moving any more.
Wilson smiles down at him and kisses him, a little desperately, as he reaches down and gently but briskly rubs at his clit, trying to bring himself off before House tries to pull out. House catches on and bats Wilson’s hands away in annoyance, replacing them with his own and working with a soft but confident pressure. When he catches Wilson’s swollen clit between two knuckles and rubs it up and down, smearing his own cum all over the pink nub, it’s over for Wilson, and he clenches up completely, yelping and trying to arch away from the pressure before his orgasm even hits.
House doesn’t let up, tugging him back down and kissing him as he holds him in place and wrings an orgasm from him, feeling his own cock twitch weakly inside of him. Wilson cries out against House, his clit throbbing at the careful but insistent attention, and he collapses against House as he gradually slows his pace and pulls away, giving one last stroke against the underside of his still-swollen pink clit.
Panting, Wilson nudges his face against House’s neck and mutters, “Could’ve done this a lot sooner if you'd just told me you were gay.”
House snorts and pulls out of Wilson’s now-sleepy form unceremoniously, letting his cum leak out over his cock. “No fun in that. Plus, didn’t know.”
That makes Wilson blink a little and sit up, alert. “You what?”
House snickers and shakes his head. “Messing with you.”