Unrelenting
Title: Unreleting, in three parts
Author: l57371
Pairing: House/Wilson
Word Count: 7500 give or take
Rating: NC17
Warnings: SEX! And a little plot.
Spoilers: None
Summary: An episode of breakthrough pain and its aftermath.
Disclaimer: Pfft. Still single parent, but I now own a lovely new Mac!
Beta: The infinitely patient
starlingthefool
Apparently LJ doesn't like big posts? Oh well.
Knives. Chainsaws. Red hot pokers. Shards of glass. Sharp teeth. Sharp sticks. All of it, all at once. And it still didn’t even come close to describing how much it hurt. Unrelenting, unstoppable, indescribable pain.
House sat in his office armchair, right hand clutching at his thigh in a futile attempt to massage away some of the pain, left hand in a vise grip around the handle of his cane. His face contorted as waves of agony rolled over his leg, again and again, until he thought he might scream. The torture had been unremitting for the last half an hour, and two Vicodin hadn’t even begun to touch it. He had debated a third but decided against it, knowing that if he did down yet another pill, he’d be staying put for the night, unable to drive or even move.
He made a decision. If the damned pain was finally going to kill him, it most certainly was not going to be here. Clenching both hands around the head of his cane, he slowly levered himself up from the chair, pausing for a moment when he was finally upright, slowly transferring some weight to his right leg to see if it would hold. After a few seconds of threatening to buckle and collapse altogether, it seemed that he would at least be able to walk - well, limp maybe, stumble, lurch even - so perhaps he’d be able to get to the car. House patted the pocket with the Vicodin vial in it, grabbed up his backpack and hobbled slowly out the door. Now to get to the parking lot without running into anyone, he thought. Ha. Fat chance.
He was just preparing to slide past Wilson’s closed office door, silently thanking an unusually cooperative universe, when the door swung open and Wilson exited, escorting out his patient with a dismissing hand on the elbow. He was smiling encouragingly, House noted. So this one will live, I guess. The smile faltered however when Wilson’s gaze moved to take in House and his awkward shuffling gate, much slower than usual, making his way toward the elevator. He gave the patient’s arm one last quick squeeze and then quickly joined his friend.
“You look like hell,” he opened cautiously, hands in his pockets, matching his stride to House’s and staying close, just in case.
“Thank you. And a merry fuck you to you, too.” House’s voice hitched slightly as another stab of pain made its way up and down the ruined thigh muscle. Wilson took in his pale face and the sheen of sweat, the way his arm muscles quivered as he leaned on the cane.
“You’re not driving,” he stated, finality in this voice.
“Well I’m certainly not walking,” House replied through gritted teeth.
“Have you taken a pill?” Wilson asked as they reached the elevator doors.
“No, I thought I’d try to ride this one out au naturel, thanks so much for asking,” House ground out in reply.
“How many?”
“Not enough.”
“How many is not enough?” Wilson’s voice was soft and House couldn’t hear the usual faint undertone of accusation in it. Strangely enough, he felt compelled to answer honestly.
“I took two in the last half hour, since this started, and one about an hour before that. If I take any more I certainly won’t be driving. Or moving. Or possibly breathing.” House kept his gaze on the floor.
“Let me just go get my stuff and I’ll drive you home. I’ll be quick.” Wilson’s hand came up to rest on House’s shoulder as he spoke, and then with a quick squeeze, he was gone before House could say anything. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had, Wilson’s tone brooked no argument, and the only thing that would happen if he’d tried to disagree would be that he would be forced to stand there longer to argue the point, and that he didn’t need.
He stood by the elevator doors, leaning heavily on the cane and watching the floor indicator lights absently. Dammit, why does he only ever touch me when I can’t do anything about it? Someday that would have to change, but not today. Not when his mind was clouded behind the hazy red curtain of pain. His shoulder tingled from the touch anyway.
A low electronic ding heralded the arrival of both the elevator and Wilson, who resumed his place close to House’s right side and laid a guiding hand on the small of House’s back, shepherding him into the lift, then turning and reaching across him to hit the button for the main floor. The hand remained on House’s back, lightly rubbing in small circles.
“Getting any better?” Wilson asked, voice soft, eyes concentrating on the lights of the floor display as they moved slowly downward.
“No.”
“Getting any worse?”
House sighed softly. “No.”
Wilson nodded slightly. The car reached the main floor finally and the doors swished open onto the clinic, bustling in a beehive of frenetic activity as doctors and nurses and patients all hurried through on their way in or out. House took a deep breath and exited the elevator, planting the cane heavily and leaning on it more than usual with each step. Wilson stuck to House’s side, running interference, clearing the path to the door.
He caught sight of Cuddy who was talking with a nurse in the anteroom of her office and moved slightly to shield the sight of House’s pained limp and attempted escape from her but wasn’t quite quick enough. She turned from the nurse and looked as though she were going to attempt to intercept the pair but halted at Wilson’s quick look and shake of the head. As they passed by, House looked up briefly and saw her lips draw down to a thin line. She dropped her gaze and turned back to the nurse.
There’s one battle I won’t have to fight today. Wonder what made her give in so quick, House thought absently. Already they were almost to the sliding main doors.
“Wait here, I’ll go get my car and pick you up,” Wilson said, retrieving his hand from House’s back. He immediately missed its presence and warmth, its reassuring comfort. Stop that, he scolded himself. Outwardly he just nodded and lowered himself carefully onto a bench beside the door. His hand strayed back to his thigh, scouring viciously into the divot with the heel of his hand.
He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to regulate his breathing as his head swam from the pain and the drugs. In, out. Don’t think about the pain. In, out. Don’t think about Wilson’s hands. In, out. Don’t think, period. The hands he was trying very hard not to think about returned, one on his shoulder, the other on his arm, coaxing him up to a standing position. House opened his eyes and took in the sight of Wilson face, very close to his own, and a thrill of excitement surfed over the waves of pain for just a second.
Slowly he grunted his way upright again and shrugged off Wilson’s grasp. “I may be a cripple, but I’m not completely helpless,” he growled. Had to keep up appearances, had to get in the shot where he could.
“No, not helpless. Hopeless maybe,” Wilson joked lightly, hovering close behind as they made their way toward the idling car. “Man, you’ll do anything to get out of work early, won’t you?”
House snorted a small puff of laughter as he lowered himself awkwardly into the passenger seat, trying to both not fall and not bend his leg any more than necessary in the operation. Finally he got sat down and swung his left leg into the car, then used both hands to pick up his right leg and move it slowly around and onto the seat. Wilson laid his hand on House’s knee as he moved the leg, protecting it from being banged on the dashboard during the awkward maneuver. When House finally got settled Wilson went to close the door.
“I’ll be back in a second, just gotta run into the clinic for something,” he said as he shut the door softly. House just laid his head back against the cushy seat and clenched his eyes shut again. Wilson was true to his word and came back quickly, hefting a bag onto the back seat as he swung lithely into the driver’s seat and belted himself in.
“Doing okay?” he asked as he checked his mirrors and pulled out into traffic.
“Just peachy,” House gritted. His hands gripped convulsively at the muscles as they twitched and rolled through spasm after spasm after spasm. They stayed like that for the rest of the trip, working at the muscles uselessly. Wilson glanced over at him, eyes darting from his face to his hands and back again, and then stepping on the accelerator a little harder each time. He never speeds, House thought. I really must look like hell if he’s speeding.
In less time than usual they pulled up in front of House’s apartment building, luckily scoring a parking spot just outside the front door. House pressed his lips together and took in a deep breath through his nose, willing the pain down for just a minute, just long enough to get to his bed. The door opened and he opened his eyes to find Wilson had already shut off the car and come around to his side.
“Okay, last leg of the journey. So to speak,” Wilson smiled slightly as he offered his arm for House to grab. He swung his legs out to the pavement and inched his way to the edge of the seat, planting his cane firmly beside his foot. He looked at the arm and grimaced, then grasped it firmly in his left hand, using both Wilson and his cane to haul himself up and out of the car.
House stood up as straight as possible and was about to let go of Wilson’s arm when a fresh bolt of pain shot through his leg, hip to ankle. His knee buckled, refusing to hold his weight. He felt himself start to go down and dug his fingers desperately into Wilson’s supporting arm, flailing wildly with the cane in his right as he tried to get it stable enough to lean some weight on. Wilson was faster though, and stepped into House’s space, wrapping his free arm around his waist and firmly pulling House’s body against his own, deftly moving his own leg so that it wouldn’t jostle the injured one. For a moment they just stood that way, bodies pressed together, arms around each other, breathing heavily with both exertion and adrenalin, waiting for the pain to subside enough to let House move.
Finally it began to recede and House pried his fingers from Wilson’s arm, noting ruefully the bruises already beginning to form. He retrieved his arm from Wilson’s waist and got his cane under him, preparing himself to shift his weight to the right. Wilson flexed the fingers on his hand and stretched out the strained muscles in his arm as he supported House’s weight with the other, still wrapped securely around House’s body, holding him tightly.
“Okay?” he asked when he felt House begin to shift his weight.
“I think so,” House breathed. He glanced pointedly at the marks on Wilson’s arm. “Good luck explaining those away. Someone will think I’m abusing you.”
“Everybody already thinks that,” Wilson said. He shifted slightly and allowed House to support his own weight again, but stayed close by in case he was needed again. “Sometimes I find pamphlets on spousal abuse in my mail, you know.” He turned his face to House and grinned widely.
House snorted. “Okay, let’s get this show on the road.” He looked back and the car and then up toward his front door. “Or off the road, I guess.”
They moved slowly toward the steps at the entrance to the building, stopping briefly to rest before tackling them. Wilson stepped forward and placed his shoulder under House’s right arm, his own arm around House’s waist, and used his body to hoist House up the three stairs and into the lobby of the building, then let go of him to move forward and unlock House’s door with his key.
Stepping inside, House dropped his bag immediately inside the door and started a slow hobble toward the couch. Wilson stepped in front of him, blocking the way.
“Uh uh, once you go down you’re not going to get back up, and I’m not carrying you any more today. Bed.” He pointed down the hallway and grabbed onto House’s arm, gently turning the man in that direction.
“Well, I knew you weren’t getting any, but I didn’t know it’d make you this bossy. You’re just trying to take advantage of the poor cripple, aren’t you? Admit it, you’re just after me for my body,” House said, attempting sarcasm. He had a feeling it came out more as a whine though.
“Yes, I fully intend to strip you naked and have my way with you as soon as I can get you in the bed,” Wilson said, matching the sarcasm in House’s voice with levity in his own. “And I don’t like to be kept waiting, so move it.”
House had to stop and catch his breath. If only, he thought. Glancing quickly at Wilson’s face he saw the smirk there and tamped down the desire to tell him inappropriate things, like that House wouldn’t keep him waiting. That House wouldn’t be at all opposed to Wilson having his way with him. Wilson was pushing gently on his arm, so he gave himself a mental shake and started slowly toward the bedroom.
“Go and get yourself into bed, I just have to run out to the car and I’ll be right back. I’ll order dinner too, what do you want?” Wilson said, moving away and back toward the front door. “I can order pizza if you like.”
“Not hungry,” House grunted.
“I didn’t ask if you were hungry, I asked what you wanted to eat. You’re going to eat. You can’t survive on Vicodin and coffee alone.”
“That’s what you think,” grumbled House. “I’ve managed to survive on it so far.”
“Yes, and you’re the picture of health too,” Wilson said, pausing in the doorway. “I can cook, if you’d rather.”
House thought for a second as he made his way down the hall. “Do I have any pasta?”
Wilson grinned. “I’ll look,” he said as he disappeared out the door.
House turned the corner into his bedroom and lowered himself onto the bed, sighing as he landed. He used his cane to push off his shoes but discovered it didn’t work as well for socks. He leaned it up against the night stand. Fine, I’ll start at the top and work my way down then, he thought obstinately, and went to work unbuttoning his overshirt. He pulled it off and threw it in the general direction of the closet and was about to start on the jeans when Wilson came bounding back into the apartment clutching the bag he had gotten from the clinic.
“No pasta, unless you count Kraft Dinner in a box. Honestly, do you ever buy real food or just steal mine?” Wilson paused in the doorway, then tossed the bag on the bed and approached House, kneeling in front of him. “Come on, let’s get you into bed. Then we can discuss dinner plans.”
“I’m fine, I can do this myself,” House groused.
Wilson raised an eyebrow at House while reaching for his good leg. “Shut up and cooperate.” He tugged on House’s sock, pulling it off, then moved to the other leg, cautiously moving the fabric over and off his right foot. “All right, now stand up and undo the pants.”
House pushed against the bed, hoisting himself up a little. Wilson again pushed his shoulder under House’s arm and took his weight while House popped the button and lowered the fly with one hand.
“Okay, just stay still for a sec,” Wilson said, moving out from under House’s arm and sliding his fingers under the waistband of House’s jeans, pushing lightly downwards, peeling the jeans from his body. House was glad of the pain then, and glad also that Wilson couldn’t see his face. He caught his breath and closed his eyes as Wilson worked his jeans off his hips, thinking that this came so close to one of his favorite fantasies, close but so far away. In the fantasy, there was no pain.
“You can sit back down now,” Wilson said softly. He had the jeans almost down to his knees. House hadn’t even noticed, distracted by his fantasy. He tried to drop gracefully back to the bed, but ended up collapsing in an ungainly heap. Wilson chuckled and dropped back to his knees, pulling the pants off over House’s feet. He rose and moved to the dresser, opened a drawer and pulled out a soft t-shirt that House often slept in. He tossed it at House.
“Here, change your shirt and then I have something for you.” House stripped off his own undershirt, sweat soaked from the physical exertion, and pulled on the fresh one. He was down to a t-shirt and boxers and Wilson was still in the room. Still on fantasy track here, he thought. Too bad it’s only fantasy.
Wilson pulled out a pre-loaded syringe.
“Morphine, Wilson? Aw, you shouldn’t have,” House drawled.
“I didn’t. It’s tramadol. Nonnarcotic, synthetic opioid. Has some interesting side effects though,” he said, tapping out the air bubbles. “Confusion, euphoria, nervousness are all possible. It’ll probably put you out too.”
“So will Vicodin,” House protested.
“And that’s worked so well for you today too. Just try this, will you? It might work, it might help.” Wilson brandished the hypodermic.
House was silent for a few seconds. “Intravenous or intramuscular?” he finally asked.
“Present backside!” Wilson said, smiling.
House snorted and lay down, rolling onto his left side. Wilson sat down behind him and pulled the elastic of his boxers down just enough to expose the large muscle. He carefully cleaned the area with an alcohol swab and then slid the needle home, injecting the tramadol. When he was finished he withdrew the needle and massaged the area lightly with his fingers. “There you go. Now I’m going to go see if I can scare up something for dinner.”
Author: l57371
Pairing: House/Wilson
Word Count: 7500 give or take
Rating: NC17
Warnings: SEX! And a little plot.
Spoilers: None
Summary: An episode of breakthrough pain and its aftermath.
Disclaimer: Pfft. Still single parent, but I now own a lovely new Mac!
Beta: The infinitely patient
starlingthefool
Apparently LJ doesn't like big posts? Oh well.
Knives. Chainsaws. Red hot pokers. Shards of glass. Sharp teeth. Sharp sticks. All of it, all at once. And it still didn’t even come close to describing how much it hurt. Unrelenting, unstoppable, indescribable pain.
House sat in his office armchair, right hand clutching at his thigh in a futile attempt to massage away some of the pain, left hand in a vise grip around the handle of his cane. His face contorted as waves of agony rolled over his leg, again and again, until he thought he might scream. The torture had been unremitting for the last half an hour, and two Vicodin hadn’t even begun to touch it. He had debated a third but decided against it, knowing that if he did down yet another pill, he’d be staying put for the night, unable to drive or even move.
He made a decision. If the damned pain was finally going to kill him, it most certainly was not going to be here. Clenching both hands around the head of his cane, he slowly levered himself up from the chair, pausing for a moment when he was finally upright, slowly transferring some weight to his right leg to see if it would hold. After a few seconds of threatening to buckle and collapse altogether, it seemed that he would at least be able to walk - well, limp maybe, stumble, lurch even - so perhaps he’d be able to get to the car. House patted the pocket with the Vicodin vial in it, grabbed up his backpack and hobbled slowly out the door. Now to get to the parking lot without running into anyone, he thought. Ha. Fat chance.
He was just preparing to slide past Wilson’s closed office door, silently thanking an unusually cooperative universe, when the door swung open and Wilson exited, escorting out his patient with a dismissing hand on the elbow. He was smiling encouragingly, House noted. So this one will live, I guess. The smile faltered however when Wilson’s gaze moved to take in House and his awkward shuffling gate, much slower than usual, making his way toward the elevator. He gave the patient’s arm one last quick squeeze and then quickly joined his friend.
“You look like hell,” he opened cautiously, hands in his pockets, matching his stride to House’s and staying close, just in case.
“Thank you. And a merry fuck you to you, too.” House’s voice hitched slightly as another stab of pain made its way up and down the ruined thigh muscle. Wilson took in his pale face and the sheen of sweat, the way his arm muscles quivered as he leaned on the cane.
“You’re not driving,” he stated, finality in this voice.
“Well I’m certainly not walking,” House replied through gritted teeth.
“Have you taken a pill?” Wilson asked as they reached the elevator doors.
“No, I thought I’d try to ride this one out au naturel, thanks so much for asking,” House ground out in reply.
“How many?”
“Not enough.”
“How many is not enough?” Wilson’s voice was soft and House couldn’t hear the usual faint undertone of accusation in it. Strangely enough, he felt compelled to answer honestly.
“I took two in the last half hour, since this started, and one about an hour before that. If I take any more I certainly won’t be driving. Or moving. Or possibly breathing.” House kept his gaze on the floor.
“Let me just go get my stuff and I’ll drive you home. I’ll be quick.” Wilson’s hand came up to rest on House’s shoulder as he spoke, and then with a quick squeeze, he was gone before House could say anything. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had, Wilson’s tone brooked no argument, and the only thing that would happen if he’d tried to disagree would be that he would be forced to stand there longer to argue the point, and that he didn’t need.
He stood by the elevator doors, leaning heavily on the cane and watching the floor indicator lights absently. Dammit, why does he only ever touch me when I can’t do anything about it? Someday that would have to change, but not today. Not when his mind was clouded behind the hazy red curtain of pain. His shoulder tingled from the touch anyway.
A low electronic ding heralded the arrival of both the elevator and Wilson, who resumed his place close to House’s right side and laid a guiding hand on the small of House’s back, shepherding him into the lift, then turning and reaching across him to hit the button for the main floor. The hand remained on House’s back, lightly rubbing in small circles.
“Getting any better?” Wilson asked, voice soft, eyes concentrating on the lights of the floor display as they moved slowly downward.
“No.”
“Getting any worse?”
House sighed softly. “No.”
Wilson nodded slightly. The car reached the main floor finally and the doors swished open onto the clinic, bustling in a beehive of frenetic activity as doctors and nurses and patients all hurried through on their way in or out. House took a deep breath and exited the elevator, planting the cane heavily and leaning on it more than usual with each step. Wilson stuck to House’s side, running interference, clearing the path to the door.
He caught sight of Cuddy who was talking with a nurse in the anteroom of her office and moved slightly to shield the sight of House’s pained limp and attempted escape from her but wasn’t quite quick enough. She turned from the nurse and looked as though she were going to attempt to intercept the pair but halted at Wilson’s quick look and shake of the head. As they passed by, House looked up briefly and saw her lips draw down to a thin line. She dropped her gaze and turned back to the nurse.
There’s one battle I won’t have to fight today. Wonder what made her give in so quick, House thought absently. Already they were almost to the sliding main doors.
“Wait here, I’ll go get my car and pick you up,” Wilson said, retrieving his hand from House’s back. He immediately missed its presence and warmth, its reassuring comfort. Stop that, he scolded himself. Outwardly he just nodded and lowered himself carefully onto a bench beside the door. His hand strayed back to his thigh, scouring viciously into the divot with the heel of his hand.
He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to regulate his breathing as his head swam from the pain and the drugs. In, out. Don’t think about the pain. In, out. Don’t think about Wilson’s hands. In, out. Don’t think, period. The hands he was trying very hard not to think about returned, one on his shoulder, the other on his arm, coaxing him up to a standing position. House opened his eyes and took in the sight of Wilson face, very close to his own, and a thrill of excitement surfed over the waves of pain for just a second.
Slowly he grunted his way upright again and shrugged off Wilson’s grasp. “I may be a cripple, but I’m not completely helpless,” he growled. Had to keep up appearances, had to get in the shot where he could.
“No, not helpless. Hopeless maybe,” Wilson joked lightly, hovering close behind as they made their way toward the idling car. “Man, you’ll do anything to get out of work early, won’t you?”
House snorted a small puff of laughter as he lowered himself awkwardly into the passenger seat, trying to both not fall and not bend his leg any more than necessary in the operation. Finally he got sat down and swung his left leg into the car, then used both hands to pick up his right leg and move it slowly around and onto the seat. Wilson laid his hand on House’s knee as he moved the leg, protecting it from being banged on the dashboard during the awkward maneuver. When House finally got settled Wilson went to close the door.
“I’ll be back in a second, just gotta run into the clinic for something,” he said as he shut the door softly. House just laid his head back against the cushy seat and clenched his eyes shut again. Wilson was true to his word and came back quickly, hefting a bag onto the back seat as he swung lithely into the driver’s seat and belted himself in.
“Doing okay?” he asked as he checked his mirrors and pulled out into traffic.
“Just peachy,” House gritted. His hands gripped convulsively at the muscles as they twitched and rolled through spasm after spasm after spasm. They stayed like that for the rest of the trip, working at the muscles uselessly. Wilson glanced over at him, eyes darting from his face to his hands and back again, and then stepping on the accelerator a little harder each time. He never speeds, House thought. I really must look like hell if he’s speeding.
In less time than usual they pulled up in front of House’s apartment building, luckily scoring a parking spot just outside the front door. House pressed his lips together and took in a deep breath through his nose, willing the pain down for just a minute, just long enough to get to his bed. The door opened and he opened his eyes to find Wilson had already shut off the car and come around to his side.
“Okay, last leg of the journey. So to speak,” Wilson smiled slightly as he offered his arm for House to grab. He swung his legs out to the pavement and inched his way to the edge of the seat, planting his cane firmly beside his foot. He looked at the arm and grimaced, then grasped it firmly in his left hand, using both Wilson and his cane to haul himself up and out of the car.
House stood up as straight as possible and was about to let go of Wilson’s arm when a fresh bolt of pain shot through his leg, hip to ankle. His knee buckled, refusing to hold his weight. He felt himself start to go down and dug his fingers desperately into Wilson’s supporting arm, flailing wildly with the cane in his right as he tried to get it stable enough to lean some weight on. Wilson was faster though, and stepped into House’s space, wrapping his free arm around his waist and firmly pulling House’s body against his own, deftly moving his own leg so that it wouldn’t jostle the injured one. For a moment they just stood that way, bodies pressed together, arms around each other, breathing heavily with both exertion and adrenalin, waiting for the pain to subside enough to let House move.
Finally it began to recede and House pried his fingers from Wilson’s arm, noting ruefully the bruises already beginning to form. He retrieved his arm from Wilson’s waist and got his cane under him, preparing himself to shift his weight to the right. Wilson flexed the fingers on his hand and stretched out the strained muscles in his arm as he supported House’s weight with the other, still wrapped securely around House’s body, holding him tightly.
“Okay?” he asked when he felt House begin to shift his weight.
“I think so,” House breathed. He glanced pointedly at the marks on Wilson’s arm. “Good luck explaining those away. Someone will think I’m abusing you.”
“Everybody already thinks that,” Wilson said. He shifted slightly and allowed House to support his own weight again, but stayed close by in case he was needed again. “Sometimes I find pamphlets on spousal abuse in my mail, you know.” He turned his face to House and grinned widely.
House snorted. “Okay, let’s get this show on the road.” He looked back and the car and then up toward his front door. “Or off the road, I guess.”
They moved slowly toward the steps at the entrance to the building, stopping briefly to rest before tackling them. Wilson stepped forward and placed his shoulder under House’s right arm, his own arm around House’s waist, and used his body to hoist House up the three stairs and into the lobby of the building, then let go of him to move forward and unlock House’s door with his key.
Stepping inside, House dropped his bag immediately inside the door and started a slow hobble toward the couch. Wilson stepped in front of him, blocking the way.
“Uh uh, once you go down you’re not going to get back up, and I’m not carrying you any more today. Bed.” He pointed down the hallway and grabbed onto House’s arm, gently turning the man in that direction.
“Well, I knew you weren’t getting any, but I didn’t know it’d make you this bossy. You’re just trying to take advantage of the poor cripple, aren’t you? Admit it, you’re just after me for my body,” House said, attempting sarcasm. He had a feeling it came out more as a whine though.
“Yes, I fully intend to strip you naked and have my way with you as soon as I can get you in the bed,” Wilson said, matching the sarcasm in House’s voice with levity in his own. “And I don’t like to be kept waiting, so move it.”
House had to stop and catch his breath. If only, he thought. Glancing quickly at Wilson’s face he saw the smirk there and tamped down the desire to tell him inappropriate things, like that House wouldn’t keep him waiting. That House wouldn’t be at all opposed to Wilson having his way with him. Wilson was pushing gently on his arm, so he gave himself a mental shake and started slowly toward the bedroom.
“Go and get yourself into bed, I just have to run out to the car and I’ll be right back. I’ll order dinner too, what do you want?” Wilson said, moving away and back toward the front door. “I can order pizza if you like.”
“Not hungry,” House grunted.
“I didn’t ask if you were hungry, I asked what you wanted to eat. You’re going to eat. You can’t survive on Vicodin and coffee alone.”
“That’s what you think,” grumbled House. “I’ve managed to survive on it so far.”
“Yes, and you’re the picture of health too,” Wilson said, pausing in the doorway. “I can cook, if you’d rather.”
House thought for a second as he made his way down the hall. “Do I have any pasta?”
Wilson grinned. “I’ll look,” he said as he disappeared out the door.
House turned the corner into his bedroom and lowered himself onto the bed, sighing as he landed. He used his cane to push off his shoes but discovered it didn’t work as well for socks. He leaned it up against the night stand. Fine, I’ll start at the top and work my way down then, he thought obstinately, and went to work unbuttoning his overshirt. He pulled it off and threw it in the general direction of the closet and was about to start on the jeans when Wilson came bounding back into the apartment clutching the bag he had gotten from the clinic.
“No pasta, unless you count Kraft Dinner in a box. Honestly, do you ever buy real food or just steal mine?” Wilson paused in the doorway, then tossed the bag on the bed and approached House, kneeling in front of him. “Come on, let’s get you into bed. Then we can discuss dinner plans.”
“I’m fine, I can do this myself,” House groused.
Wilson raised an eyebrow at House while reaching for his good leg. “Shut up and cooperate.” He tugged on House’s sock, pulling it off, then moved to the other leg, cautiously moving the fabric over and off his right foot. “All right, now stand up and undo the pants.”
House pushed against the bed, hoisting himself up a little. Wilson again pushed his shoulder under House’s arm and took his weight while House popped the button and lowered the fly with one hand.
“Okay, just stay still for a sec,” Wilson said, moving out from under House’s arm and sliding his fingers under the waistband of House’s jeans, pushing lightly downwards, peeling the jeans from his body. House was glad of the pain then, and glad also that Wilson couldn’t see his face. He caught his breath and closed his eyes as Wilson worked his jeans off his hips, thinking that this came so close to one of his favorite fantasies, close but so far away. In the fantasy, there was no pain.
“You can sit back down now,” Wilson said softly. He had the jeans almost down to his knees. House hadn’t even noticed, distracted by his fantasy. He tried to drop gracefully back to the bed, but ended up collapsing in an ungainly heap. Wilson chuckled and dropped back to his knees, pulling the pants off over House’s feet. He rose and moved to the dresser, opened a drawer and pulled out a soft t-shirt that House often slept in. He tossed it at House.
“Here, change your shirt and then I have something for you.” House stripped off his own undershirt, sweat soaked from the physical exertion, and pulled on the fresh one. He was down to a t-shirt and boxers and Wilson was still in the room. Still on fantasy track here, he thought. Too bad it’s only fantasy.
Wilson pulled out a pre-loaded syringe.
“Morphine, Wilson? Aw, you shouldn’t have,” House drawled.
“I didn’t. It’s tramadol. Nonnarcotic, synthetic opioid. Has some interesting side effects though,” he said, tapping out the air bubbles. “Confusion, euphoria, nervousness are all possible. It’ll probably put you out too.”
“So will Vicodin,” House protested.
“And that’s worked so well for you today too. Just try this, will you? It might work, it might help.” Wilson brandished the hypodermic.
House was silent for a few seconds. “Intravenous or intramuscular?” he finally asked.
“Present backside!” Wilson said, smiling.
House snorted and lay down, rolling onto his left side. Wilson sat down behind him and pulled the elastic of his boxers down just enough to expose the large muscle. He carefully cleaned the area with an alcohol swab and then slid the needle home, injecting the tramadol. When he was finished he withdrew the needle and massaged the area lightly with his fingers. “There you go. Now I’m going to go see if I can scare up something for dinner.”