Because He Can (1/?)
Title: Because He Can
Author: Magie
Word Count: 5,419
Pairing: House/Wilson established (kind of)
Rating/Warnings: NC-17, language, smut, and inappropriate use of hair care products.
Summary: Written for the get_house_laid prompt number 071: House/Wilson -- Smut that takes place before the Ketamine treatment wears off and House still has full use of his leg. Unusual positions are a plus! This thing turned out way longer than I intended, and for that I apologize. I’m planning to continue it.
Betas: Thanks so much to daphnie_1 and bmax67. Any mistakes or suckage are mine :)
House was always a cripple.
There were always things he couldn’t do, even with all his body parts intact, even before daily narcotics dulled his senses. He couldn’t accept conventional thinking, rules, affection. He could not be content with failure or mediocrity. For all his rationality and logic, he’d never understand simple emotions, didn’t think they were important. He’d never be able to simply look at his best friend and tell him something real without masking it in semantics and sarcasm.
It was no more his fault than the infarction had been.
But for everything he couldn’t do, even now, even after his handicap was no longer abstract, there were things he did better than anyone. Being a genius. Solving his puzzles and accidentally saving lives, finding new and interesting ways of being a jerk. Making Wilson laugh.
He couldn’t run. He couldn’t walk. He couldn’t fit into the carefully constructed boxes of conventionality or decency. He couldn’t do anything that would make Wilson want to leave.
He didn’t fit in the boxes, and he did everything he could to make sure everyone knew it. If you can’t be normal, be different. If society cannot accept you, don’t accept it. Contradiction became a game.
It was fitting, then, that getting shot made House feel like he could do anything.
Wilson thought it was markedly screwed up that the hospital could not keep crazy gunmen out or crazier gunshot victims in. And now that House was mobile, he could be anywhere. That thought scared Wilson, and made him smile.
The manhunt had already encompassed House’s favorite hiding spots, the balcony, the roof, the bar across the street. But Wilson hadn’t wasted his time looking for House anywhere near the hospital. Five days of hospitalization had been five days too long for House, who had had enough experience as an inpatient.
The apartment was brighter than usual, Wilson thought, and less like walking into the home of Count Dracula. There were no shadowy corners or glasses of scotch or mysterious figures at pianos.
He tried not to let the conspicuous absence of the pill bottle temper his annoyance. Restored physical health or not, House was still as self-destructive as ever, leaving the hospital three days after waking up from a dissociative coma, his wounds still at high risk for infection. He’d nearly died and nothing had changed, at least nothing beyond the physical, nothing that made House who he was. The thought was perversely comforting.
Wilson hadn’t changed either, so he walked into House’s place with a well-organized list of complaints swimming in his head, along with a certain sense of relief. He was here, the place that had felt more like home than any white-shuttered and well-financed fallacy he’d lived in with his wives, the place pizza and beer tasted the best, the place where just months ago, the most screwed-up friendship of his life had expanded into something more, something better, something just as screwed up, but he couldn’t imagine going back.
When he reached the bathroom at the end of the hall, the sight of House standing straight and balanced, no cane in hand, bare-chested in front of the glass-front medicine cabinet reminded him of what he had missed. What he had nearly lost.
Wilson locked gazes with the reflection and felt any residual anger ebb away at the small grin House couldn’t hide from the mirror.
“You finally caught up with me,” House said softly, not turning around.
“Yeah, you were all but impossible to track down,” he mumbled back, part of him turning to liquid at the tone of House’s voice. “You’d better be glad it was me that found you, not Cuddy. Pretty sure she would have chained you to your bed in real life this time.” He was secretly proud House had trusted him enough to talk about what he had seen in those seconds of death, even if it could mean change, even if that scared the hell out of him.
He watched muscles jerk in House’s naked shoulders as he shrugged. “She wants me.” Reflected blue eyes winked conspiratorially at him through the mirror and Wilson forgot the list of complaints entirely.
“In your dreams,” he whispered, suddenly inches from House’s back, “literally.”
Clean skin fell under Wilson’s lips and palms. Tentatively, he rested his cheek against the left, uninjured crook of House’s neck, sandpaper stubble turning into silk against his skin. “Someone missed me,” House murmured after a moment, like the notion was foreign to him.
Encouraged and smiling, Wilson laid a long-restrained kiss into a shoulder that lost all tension under his lips, running his fingers up a torso that sank flush against his own. But he kept his distance below the waist, keeping his hands above jean-clad hips, giving him space, not demanding anything House’s body wasn’t ready for, ignoring the pulling sensation in the pit of his stomach that wouldn’t let him forget it had been two, desperate, anxious weeks since the last time-
“Hmm,” House said speculatively, but to Wilson’s chest, it felt more like a purr, “surgical scars make you hot?”
Wilson grinned into kiss-moistened shoulder, letting his fingers crawl up a few inches toward the heated flesh on House’s side. “Gillig did a good job. Won’t be that noticeable,” he lifted his chin and put his lips next to House’s ear, “A couple of inches at most-House, what is that?”
What looked like short, coarse, thick, black hairs were scattered against the white, porcelain sink in front of them, pink trails drifting snake-like towards the drain. He released House like an electric charge had run through him. “Are you cutting out your own stitches?”
“Well, they weren’t going to take themselves out,” and for the first time, Wilson noticed the pilfered nail scissors in House’s right hand.
“They’re not supposed to come out yet, House!” By force of habit, he avoided spinning House around, instead slipping around and in between him and the sink, unconsciously and unnecessarily sparing House’s leg. He bent down and squinted into the inflamed skin against House’s rib cage, a few stubborn stitches growing out of a raised curve of flesh. The twisted wound looked dry and irritated, but still-mercifully-closed. But that wasn’t the point. “You couldn’t have left them in three more days?”
House was gazing down at him in pure amusement, a tiny, obnoxious smirk on his face. “Surgical scars do turn you on, don’t they?”
“Gimme those,” Wilson grabbed the tiny scissors out of House’s hand. “Before you hurt yourself.”
Admittedly, the wound was healing nicely, and at this point, the stitches were doing little more than getting in the way of Wilson’s fingertips. Still wasn’t the point. “Are you trying to finish the shooter’s job for him? It would have been great for you to have reopened this and bled to death in your bathroom.”
“Well, sorry to disappoint,” his voice rumbled in Wilson’s ear, against his face, in his skin. “I did try, but, you know. Small scissors.”
“Pity,” Wilson muttered, decidedly not turned on as he went to work removing latent sutures. “Hold still.”
He didn’t listen, of course, and brought a hand to rest lightly on the back of Wilson’s neck while he bent down to eye the incision.
The bullet had pierced House’s stomach, nicked the bowel, lodged in a posterior rib. Had he been alone, the wound would have killed him, slowly, black blood and stomach acid oozing out, leaving him conscious and in pain. Wilson swallowed.
“Stop that,” House barked suddenly, pulling Wilson out of the worst possible daydream. “Staring at it’s not going to make it go away,” more gently, “and if you don’t mind, I’d like to get the rest of these wires out of my skin at some point. Get to snipping.”
His eyebrows were curled in some version of a smile. Some part of Wilson was aware that the simple act of accepting help was a form of comfort, a sacrifice, a gift to make his second brush with death go away for a few seconds.
At least, that was what Wilson chose to believe, as he brought the scissors to the wound, all the time aware of House’s right hand held against his neck and out of the way, tangible electricity forming in the inches between their chests.
Wilson felt a little heat creep into his face because he didn’t intend for something he’d done a hundred times and for total strangers to make his skin prickle, his heart speed up, certainly not today, not when House was shot and doped with ketamine and escaping from hospitals.
But the way those rough fingers twisted so softly in his hair, the too-long fingernails leaving behind little chills as they were dragged up and down Wilson’s neck, the scent and sight of the bare chest inches from his nose…it was getting harder and harder not to care that something else was getting harder and harder…
He yanked out a thread a little more forcefully than was necessary. House hissed, but the hand didn’t stop its attentions. Wilson spoke mostly to keep himself from humming in appreciation. “Do you need to sit down?”
Now the hand did pause. “No,” House said slowly, savoring the word, tasting it, making it last because it was probably the first time in six years he had answered that question with a ‘no’ and not been lying.
Another twist of thread fluttered into the general vicinity of the sink as Wilson shook his scissors over the basin, dimly aware that it would be a mess to clean up later. Meanwhile, House’s left hand had joined the right, slipping casually onto Wilson’s hunched shoulder and drifting down his back with slow friction…
“I’m trying to work, here,” he protested in a way he knew would only encourage more unfamiliar affection.
“So am I.” It was breathed into his ear, the soft warmth a test.
Wilson was failing it, miserably. One final suture mocked him from the corner of the jagged scar and all he could think about was the way House’s eyes were glittering, the smug little grin, the fingers that had somehow found their way to Wilson’s tie.
“I’m nearly done,” came the squeaked response and suddenly Wilson felt like a teenager again, wanting to touch, but knowing he shouldn’t, because House’s Mom or Dad or Cuddy would be mad if he tried to feel up their recently shot son.
Of course, he’d lost the battle to hormones back then, too; no reason now should be any different, especially when this was possibly the most intense physical relationship he could remember, not that he cared to remember, not that he could form coherent thoughts as the tie slipped off and guitar-calloused fingers started working his shirt open-
“Trust me,” the first button gave up and allowed House’s breath and touch against the exposed clavicle, “you’re just getting started.”
Wilson felt an instant, adolescent blush, realized that House probably noticed, and blushed harder. “Is there anything you can’t make about sex?” He placed a steadying left hand on House’s chest and removed the last suture, then tossed the scissors into the sink with a clatter, freeing his fingers for more enjoyable activities. Namely, wrapping themselves around House’s pelvic bone.
“I’m not the one with the scar fetish.” He let his forehead thud softly against Wilson’s, his hands going to work, untucking the shirt, undoing the remaining buttons, letting the air between their mouths mix and ignite.
Even lost among sexual tension, warm breath, and strong fingers, Wilson could feel the difference. House’s weight was evenly balanced, his hips and shoulders in a straight line, leaning toward Wilson because he wanted to, not because he had to. He was standing. Normal, at least physically. Wilson wondered how long it would be before the looking-glass would break.
“Does it hurt?” and the stilled fingers on the last button told him that House knew the question did not concern bruised, healing bullet wounds.
He pulled back and Wilson read the ‘no’ in his smirk, in eyes not swollen by drugs. House pushed the opened dress shirt down to hang on Wilson’s elbows, the air cooling fresh sweat briefly before somewhat abrasive lips found their way to Wilson’s neck.
He melted unabashedly into the touch, shutting his eyes, arching his neck, wriggling the rest of the way out of his shirt before his doubts could sabotage him.
But lingering under a haze of arousal were little bubbles of worry. House’s prematurely un-stitched wound, his pain-free but still weakened leg, the fact that they hadn’t talked about this new, foreign, eerily normal life the shooting and ketamine had given them-
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” and it’s whispered because maybe he doesn’t want to know if House is not ready for this, because his own body is aching for it, because his hips don’t seem to want to keep from pushing forward.
House tangled a hand into the back of Wilson’s hair, holding him still, possessing him, speaking huskily into his ear. “I’ve been ready for this for six years.”
He punctuated his words with slow kisses up a willing jaw, ending in an exclamation point, darting his tongue out to lick the corner of Wilson’s parted lips…
His mouth tastes different, Wilson swears it does. It’s softer, warmer, wet and pliant with saliva without the bitter taste of dry-swallowed Vicodin. Kissing him is so easy, yet exhausting, letting that beautifully slick tongue slide over his own, pushing back when it seems appropriate, trying not to laugh because he can’t taste a trace of acrid pills on House’s lips.
It’s only been a few minutes, but Wilson is already moaning softly into House’s mouth, thinking he should be a little embarrassed that House can so easily tear him apart, thinking he should stop thinking as fumbling hands touched every part of bare skin in reach, then turned him purposefully toward the wall, his now fully enthusiastic hard-on whipping around with him like a pistol under tightening pants.
This is different, too. He is no stranger to being eased backward by House, to a bed, a wall, to the desk that one time after checking the hallways for wayward patients. Wilson is used to supporting them both, keeping them steady since House can’t, used to the way their lips are jarred with every other step.
But now it’s different, subtle but there, as he’s pushed straight back with a thud into the wall, no need to surreptitiously keep his left hand under House’s right elbow. He could sense the way the muscles were working under the beginnings of sweat, could feel the more evenly distributed weight, could tell that balance was the last thing House was worried about at the moment. He was still leading with his left, however, still weak from years of too much pain to exercise, still missing muscle, still not ready for anything overly ambitious.
“So, where to?” his voice gravelly, stealing quick, hard kisses between words, “Which wildly inappropriate piece of furniture do I get to bend you over first?”
Wilson swallowed a moan just from hearing the words but could not stop his fingers from unbuttoning House’s jeans. “You can’t rush this.”
House hitched his breath slightly as Wilson slid the zipper down slowly over a warm bulge. “Who’s rushing?”
“You know what I mean,” he took a break from undressing House long enough to snake his hand through the fly of tented boxers, “nothing too athletic. Your leg has atrophied; it’s vulnerable to strain. It’d be great for you to pull a thigh muscle just when you’re finally pain-free.” He covered his concern by running a thumb down a pulsing erection.
“Bastard,” House said, then kissed him hotly, “depriving a man recently un-crippled the simple pleasure of fucking you through mattresses and couches. Or pianos.”
“Well,” Wilson gasped, taking back his hands and frantically going to work on his own belt, “just for now. Sign up for physical therapy tomorrow.” He moaned as House slid his hands down the back of now-loosened trousers. “Please.”
“Who needs some med school drop-out telling me to ‘visualize the healing’ when I’ve got my own hot personal fitness instructor right here?” Wandering fingers slid down, slid in between, teased at sensitive opening-
“Mmm,” was the closest he could manage to a sarcastic ‘yes,’ using both hands to pull House in for a quick series of kisses, “but I don’t want to hurt you. PT tomorrow,” he rolled House’s unbuttoned jeans and boxers down below his hips, “then we can talk about that piano thing.”
“Don’t worry,” he reached down and did the same favor for Wilson, who gasped at the sensation of an appreciatively hard cock against his own, “I plan on keeping a list. Pianos, park benches, clinical exam tables, in the university pool-“
“Wherever you want,” the words spilled out of his mouth and a tiny part of his brain was already regretting the promise, “if you do the PT and after a specialist clears you.” Secretly, his heart flared: House was healthy, maybe one day happy, but he had to do this the right way, had to admit he needed help if he were to regain function lost six years ago. “We have time," and he knew they did, knew the ketamine would take because going back was not an option.
A glimmer of some kind of fear or cynicism stole through House’s eyes, but it was gone the next second, when Wilson wrapped a hand around their joined, heavy erections and began to play. House groaned and leaned in to bite Wilson’s shoulder, and Wilson felt himself sliding a few inches across the sweat-slicked wall and moaning with the sharp, delicious sensation.
“So what’d you have in mind, Killjoy?” Evenly balanced hips ground slowly into Wilson’s own, multiplying rough friction in his hand. “Jerking off in a bathroom seems a little juvenile. Think we can find a better way to celebrate my miraculous recovery?”
Personally, Wilson was sure he’d be able to come just from this, just from House’s words, from the hand that had slipped in between them to involve his balls in the discussion. But, he reasoned, as well as one could reason when strong fingers were pressing upward against his perineum and tickling his prostate, this was a special occasion.
He jerked his head to the right, to the innocent-looking shower behind a fluttering vanilla curtain. “Suppose we could get a little more creative.”
He felt House smile into the bite mark on his shoulder and wished he could see it. House’s true smiles were a rare atmospheric phenomenon. He settled for tangling his fingers in the back of House’s hair, slumping his head back against the wall as warm, wet kisses erupted down his collarbone. He allowed a smile of his own. House clearly liked the idea.
He didn’t do well in the shower, or standing at all. In fact, Wilson sometimes wondered how House even got in and out without help, without the safety rails he flatly refused to install. Their infrequent attempts at this had been more about simple time-saving amusement than anything serious, although Wilson enjoyed the closeness.
But now, only five days after the ketamine, the leg was already less of an issue. How much would change? How much of it would be for the better?
He pushed the thought aside, because some things wouldn’t change, like the way it felt to have his fingers in House’s hair, around his cock, the little needy noise he made when Wilson kissed the top of his head and slipped out from under him, walking out of his slacks and underwear on his way to the bathtub.
He leaned over-a bit farther than was strictly necessary, perhaps-to turn on the shower, enjoying the feel of House’s eyes on him as much as the sound of him walking up behind, jeans hitting the floor, low voice spilling chills up Wilson’s spine, “Nice view.”
“Just wait,” he blushed, but a thrill was in his chest as he pulled back the shower curtain and stepped under the warm spray, turning around in time to catch House eyeing him.
House was kissing him in a second, the tub wall not a problem without pain, only hesitating to lift his still-weakened right side in after his left. But the water was hot, the kisses long and slow, the pressure of his erection perfect against Wilson’s, and he wrapped his hand back around them both, spreading out the warm droplets of water.
“Jerking off in the shower,” House said into his mouth, a thumb circling Wilson’s nipple under trails of hot water, “Still not exactly every guy’s fantasy.”
Wilson disagreed, as House was standing upright with him under the shower head, no need to lean against the wall; hot, chlorinated water flavoring each kiss, clinging to House’s eyelashes and facial hair, dangling from his jaw like teardrops. Just begging to be sucked off, like wet sandpaper on Wilson's lips and tongue. And by the way House was grinding his cock furiously into Wilson’s fist, the man was obviously more impressed than he let on.
“Sorry to bore you,” he muttered into House’s neck, his eyes closed, blindly seeking out House’s mouth again as he rubbed them both, faster, using his other hand for more friction, obeying a drive that was much more powerful than House’s half-hearted complaints.
“Mmm…’m not complaining,” he’d read Wilson’s mind, “Not your fault you have no imagination.”
“And what exactly do you suggest, Dr. Ruth?”
“Turn around.”
Wilson pulled back and look at him, sure that he looked comically skeptical.
“Oh, relax,” House said, and dipped his head to lick hot shower water running down Wilson’s breastbone. “Nothing too intense till I go to PT like a good boy, I got it. Trust me.”
‘Trust me’ coming from House was never followed by anything good; it always reminded Wilson of old fables from childhood, the crow that stupidly trusted the fox and ended up dying a horrible death.
But House grinned at him and he rolled his eyes, because that was all it took for him to turn around, move to the back end of the shower, and brace himself with both hands against cold tile until the shower’s hot sprinkles were only hitting the backs of his legs, lowering his head and speaking into his chest. “I’m ready to be enlightened.”
He could hear House smirking, along with the click of some plastic bottle cap being snapped open. He wasn’t sure if he should be apprehensive or just give into the increasing tingle of intrigue in the pit of his stomach.
He angled his body, dropped his head to watch water fall from his hair to a part of his body begging for attention. Suddenly something cold fell on his neck and he gasped, lifted his head back against long fingers that were working a soft, familiar, thickly fragranced substance into the back of his neck, ghosting through the ends of his hair-
“Is that my conditioner?” House’s fingers warmed the soft liquid, drifting down Wilson’s skin in a kind of slow massage that Wilson allowed himself to believe was affection, down to his shoulder, his spine, sliding around to his chest and downward-
“Figured the stuff’s gotta be useful for something,” and how had Wilson never realized how soft and slick the hair care product became against his skin, so much better than soap, melting his muscles into butter under House’s fingers.
Protests that the conditioner was specially formulated and eight dollars a bottle and that lube was cheaper were driven out completely when those impossibly slick and wet fingers found the base of his shaft, squeezed it between thumb and two fingers, coaxed out bolts of sensation that seemed to hit his entire body.
He groaned, squeezed his eyes shut and instinctively angled his body more, bending forward, opening himself, offering-
“This is much more interesting,” grumbled into Wilson’s ear, and he felt his offer being cordially accepted, House pressing himself against his ass, not inside, not even trying, but in between, that same viscous slickness coating the resistance.
Wilson arched his head back. This was interesting, subtle, slow stroking across his entrance, not thrusting but rubbing, the tip pressing against his scrotum, hair conditioner of all things keeping this from being dry humping. The proximity, the possibility of penetration was more of a turn-on than anything, slick hardness teasing under a tight ring of muscle, brushing so gently under his prostate that it hurt. Leave it to House, he thought, to come up with such a creative solution.
There would be no strain on the leg, not if this continued, not if House simply kept himself here and let the hot water hit their backs, rocking gently, well-conditioned hand spreading bubbles and intense pleasure up and down Wilson’s length. Wilson, for his part, did his best to keep up, pushing back, rhythmically clenching recently well-exercised muscles around House.
He groaned and Wilson wished he could feel it, wished the angle didn’t require the space between his back and House’s chest, but the next second he was groaning himself, the noise pulled from him through his penis, House finishing off each stroke with a slick, squeezing twist.
“Fuck,” he hissed, palms sliding down the tile.
“You said no. Don’t tell me you’re regretting that choice?”
He saw the smug grin in front of his eyes, but it was soon replaced by stars as another twisted stroke was followed by a particularly strong forward rock and the pressure over his entrance and under his prostate made him swear again in a moan, made his muscles clench, made House bite down a sharp cry…
For a second, Wilson thought he had come without noticing, thought the hot, thick liquid being washed down his leg with tepid shower water was his own. He wasn’t used to finishing last. But House relaxed his hips, his mouth found Wilson’s back, and his hand and ejaculate on Wilson’s length was enough, more than enough, and barely a minute had passed before his own release was trickling towards the drain with House’s, trickling down with the bathwater.
He turned around slowly, almost cautiously, wanting House to speak first, but knowing he wouldn’t. “You-" he couldn’t stop the grin, “--that seemed a little too easy.”
House shrugged, moved sideways back under the shower head, kept his eyes down. “Amazing what that ass of yours can do, given the right circumstances.”
“The right circumstances being you off the Vicodin?”
He pulled Wilson under the rapidly cooling water with him. “Well. That and your girly conditioner over there,” he grabbed up the still-open and now half-empty bottle.
“Now I’m going to run out of the conditioner before the shampoo,” he said sleepily, taking the bottle from House. “I’ll be forever stuck in a curve of having either too much shampoo or too little conditioner.”
“So we’ll use the shampoo next time,” he leered.
Wilson kissed him until the water ran completely cold.
House dressed quickly, pulling on shorts and pajama pants before Wilson had even reached the bedroom. The pain was gone, but his scar wasn’t. Wilson decided to save that particular discussion for some other time.
He cleaned up House’s ripped-out sutures but left the discarded clothing on the floor. He had lost his best excuse for not cleaning up after himself. Wilson was both excited and nervous about how much would change now.
It was almost awkward. House could have gotten his own glass of water, but Wilson brought one anyway, just like he usually did on nights he slept over. As he pulled back the covers, he caught himself looking around the room for House’s cane, as he was so used to locating it before bed. Pain had been House’s routine for so long. Wilson didn’t quite know how to act-
Until a hiss reached his ears as he turned out the light. “You okay?”
He heard the rub of flesh against fabric. “Fine.”
Wilson moved over the bed like a bat, his eyes still adjusting to the glow of moonlight. House wasn’t rubbing his thigh, as usual, as predicted, as feared. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his palm clamped over his chest, inches from the wounded ribcage.
Wilson blindly crawled up behind him, scared to say anything, knowing that he should. “It’s not bleeding, is it?”
A pause. “No.”
“We shouldn’t have gotten it wet, House.” Now it was going to be irritated all night, probably get infected since House hadn’t bothered to keep his sutures in. Wilson was an idiot, he never should have let it go--
“It’s fine.” He swung his left leg onto the bed, picking up and dragging his right leg behind like he did every night, but this time, the painful grimace was coming from his neck and side, not his leg.
Wilson swallowed fear. “Where are your pills?” It was a question he thought he was done with. “I know you had a few left-“
“Just leave it alone.”
“House,” and he shut his eyes because he had really hoped this conversation wouldn’t be necessary, “it’s fine if you need them. You were on them for five years; it’s going to take time. You don’t have to be in pain just because you’re-“
“Going to sleep, now.” Wilson heard annoyance there, of course. Denial, fear. But he also heard pain, and he sensed the tension of House’s muscles as he settled in next to him in the dark, not daring to touch.
It had been Wilson’s fault, or at least half his fault, for allowing this; House hadn’t been ready for sex, or at least, not all parts of him had been. What if he’d pulled at the wound? What must it feel like? House shouldn’t have to be in pain, not anymore.
“I threw them out,” he mumbled suddenly.
Wilson breathed deeply for several seconds. “Why?”
“I didn’t need them. Much like I don’t need this conversation.”
“You didn’t need them,” he repeated. “House, you just got shot. You’ve got a long road of physical therapy ahead of you-“
“What is it with you?” His side of the bed shifted and Wilson could feel him drawing away. “I take the pills, you whine; I don’t take them, and now you’re pissed.”
“Because it’s just as irresponsible for you to let yourself be in pain than it is for you to knock back pills when you don’t need them. You’re going to be in pain, you won’t be able to do your physical therapy, then the next thing you know, your leg starts deteriorating.” Then he’d be back with the cane, forced back to the pills, left with only a renewed memory of what it felt like to be healthy. He’d thrown out his pills because they made him weak, reminded him of a life he was so close to moving past. Two weeks ago, Wilson would have been thrilled if House wanted to cut back on Vicodin. Now, he saw it for what it was: just a new way for House to self-destruct.
He could understand-he was perversely proud -that House wanted to give the pills up…but he was upset, afraid, confused that House saw no problem in allowing himself to be in pain.
He shifted a few inches closer to House’s turned back, reached out a hand to find his shoulder-
“Stop it,” he said, before Wilson had even touched him. “Either go to sleep or go give your speech to the walls in your hotel room.”
He let his arm drop heavily, turned over, burrowed further into the covers. He thought maybe he’d be warmer if he did go back to his hotel room; House had left two feet and twenty years of distance between them.
House couldn’t accept Wilson’s concern for him. He couldn’t talk about whether he was scared or happy or in pain. He couldn’t trust. He couldn’t allow this new thing between them to expand beyond the physical, beyond carefully caged banter.
Wilson curled into a ball, colder than if he had been alone. House was, despite everything, still a cripple.
Next chapter: House starts physical therapy. Wilson...helps :)
Next
Author: Magie
Word Count: 5,419
Pairing: House/Wilson established (kind of)
Rating/Warnings: NC-17, language, smut, and inappropriate use of hair care products.
Summary: Written for the get_house_laid prompt number 071: House/Wilson -- Smut that takes place before the Ketamine treatment wears off and House still has full use of his leg. Unusual positions are a plus! This thing turned out way longer than I intended, and for that I apologize. I’m planning to continue it.
Betas: Thanks so much to daphnie_1 and bmax67. Any mistakes or suckage are mine :)
House was always a cripple.
There were always things he couldn’t do, even with all his body parts intact, even before daily narcotics dulled his senses. He couldn’t accept conventional thinking, rules, affection. He could not be content with failure or mediocrity. For all his rationality and logic, he’d never understand simple emotions, didn’t think they were important. He’d never be able to simply look at his best friend and tell him something real without masking it in semantics and sarcasm.
It was no more his fault than the infarction had been.
But for everything he couldn’t do, even now, even after his handicap was no longer abstract, there were things he did better than anyone. Being a genius. Solving his puzzles and accidentally saving lives, finding new and interesting ways of being a jerk. Making Wilson laugh.
He couldn’t run. He couldn’t walk. He couldn’t fit into the carefully constructed boxes of conventionality or decency. He couldn’t do anything that would make Wilson want to leave.
He didn’t fit in the boxes, and he did everything he could to make sure everyone knew it. If you can’t be normal, be different. If society cannot accept you, don’t accept it. Contradiction became a game.
It was fitting, then, that getting shot made House feel like he could do anything.
Wilson thought it was markedly screwed up that the hospital could not keep crazy gunmen out or crazier gunshot victims in. And now that House was mobile, he could be anywhere. That thought scared Wilson, and made him smile.
The manhunt had already encompassed House’s favorite hiding spots, the balcony, the roof, the bar across the street. But Wilson hadn’t wasted his time looking for House anywhere near the hospital. Five days of hospitalization had been five days too long for House, who had had enough experience as an inpatient.
The apartment was brighter than usual, Wilson thought, and less like walking into the home of Count Dracula. There were no shadowy corners or glasses of scotch or mysterious figures at pianos.
He tried not to let the conspicuous absence of the pill bottle temper his annoyance. Restored physical health or not, House was still as self-destructive as ever, leaving the hospital three days after waking up from a dissociative coma, his wounds still at high risk for infection. He’d nearly died and nothing had changed, at least nothing beyond the physical, nothing that made House who he was. The thought was perversely comforting.
Wilson hadn’t changed either, so he walked into House’s place with a well-organized list of complaints swimming in his head, along with a certain sense of relief. He was here, the place that had felt more like home than any white-shuttered and well-financed fallacy he’d lived in with his wives, the place pizza and beer tasted the best, the place where just months ago, the most screwed-up friendship of his life had expanded into something more, something better, something just as screwed up, but he couldn’t imagine going back.
When he reached the bathroom at the end of the hall, the sight of House standing straight and balanced, no cane in hand, bare-chested in front of the glass-front medicine cabinet reminded him of what he had missed. What he had nearly lost.
Wilson locked gazes with the reflection and felt any residual anger ebb away at the small grin House couldn’t hide from the mirror.
“You finally caught up with me,” House said softly, not turning around.
“Yeah, you were all but impossible to track down,” he mumbled back, part of him turning to liquid at the tone of House’s voice. “You’d better be glad it was me that found you, not Cuddy. Pretty sure she would have chained you to your bed in real life this time.” He was secretly proud House had trusted him enough to talk about what he had seen in those seconds of death, even if it could mean change, even if that scared the hell out of him.
He watched muscles jerk in House’s naked shoulders as he shrugged. “She wants me.” Reflected blue eyes winked conspiratorially at him through the mirror and Wilson forgot the list of complaints entirely.
“In your dreams,” he whispered, suddenly inches from House’s back, “literally.”
Clean skin fell under Wilson’s lips and palms. Tentatively, he rested his cheek against the left, uninjured crook of House’s neck, sandpaper stubble turning into silk against his skin. “Someone missed me,” House murmured after a moment, like the notion was foreign to him.
Encouraged and smiling, Wilson laid a long-restrained kiss into a shoulder that lost all tension under his lips, running his fingers up a torso that sank flush against his own. But he kept his distance below the waist, keeping his hands above jean-clad hips, giving him space, not demanding anything House’s body wasn’t ready for, ignoring the pulling sensation in the pit of his stomach that wouldn’t let him forget it had been two, desperate, anxious weeks since the last time-
“Hmm,” House said speculatively, but to Wilson’s chest, it felt more like a purr, “surgical scars make you hot?”
Wilson grinned into kiss-moistened shoulder, letting his fingers crawl up a few inches toward the heated flesh on House’s side. “Gillig did a good job. Won’t be that noticeable,” he lifted his chin and put his lips next to House’s ear, “A couple of inches at most-House, what is that?”
What looked like short, coarse, thick, black hairs were scattered against the white, porcelain sink in front of them, pink trails drifting snake-like towards the drain. He released House like an electric charge had run through him. “Are you cutting out your own stitches?”
“Well, they weren’t going to take themselves out,” and for the first time, Wilson noticed the pilfered nail scissors in House’s right hand.
“They’re not supposed to come out yet, House!” By force of habit, he avoided spinning House around, instead slipping around and in between him and the sink, unconsciously and unnecessarily sparing House’s leg. He bent down and squinted into the inflamed skin against House’s rib cage, a few stubborn stitches growing out of a raised curve of flesh. The twisted wound looked dry and irritated, but still-mercifully-closed. But that wasn’t the point. “You couldn’t have left them in three more days?”
House was gazing down at him in pure amusement, a tiny, obnoxious smirk on his face. “Surgical scars do turn you on, don’t they?”
“Gimme those,” Wilson grabbed the tiny scissors out of House’s hand. “Before you hurt yourself.”
Admittedly, the wound was healing nicely, and at this point, the stitches were doing little more than getting in the way of Wilson’s fingertips. Still wasn’t the point. “Are you trying to finish the shooter’s job for him? It would have been great for you to have reopened this and bled to death in your bathroom.”
“Well, sorry to disappoint,” his voice rumbled in Wilson’s ear, against his face, in his skin. “I did try, but, you know. Small scissors.”
“Pity,” Wilson muttered, decidedly not turned on as he went to work removing latent sutures. “Hold still.”
He didn’t listen, of course, and brought a hand to rest lightly on the back of Wilson’s neck while he bent down to eye the incision.
The bullet had pierced House’s stomach, nicked the bowel, lodged in a posterior rib. Had he been alone, the wound would have killed him, slowly, black blood and stomach acid oozing out, leaving him conscious and in pain. Wilson swallowed.
“Stop that,” House barked suddenly, pulling Wilson out of the worst possible daydream. “Staring at it’s not going to make it go away,” more gently, “and if you don’t mind, I’d like to get the rest of these wires out of my skin at some point. Get to snipping.”
His eyebrows were curled in some version of a smile. Some part of Wilson was aware that the simple act of accepting help was a form of comfort, a sacrifice, a gift to make his second brush with death go away for a few seconds.
At least, that was what Wilson chose to believe, as he brought the scissors to the wound, all the time aware of House’s right hand held against his neck and out of the way, tangible electricity forming in the inches between their chests.
Wilson felt a little heat creep into his face because he didn’t intend for something he’d done a hundred times and for total strangers to make his skin prickle, his heart speed up, certainly not today, not when House was shot and doped with ketamine and escaping from hospitals.
But the way those rough fingers twisted so softly in his hair, the too-long fingernails leaving behind little chills as they were dragged up and down Wilson’s neck, the scent and sight of the bare chest inches from his nose…it was getting harder and harder not to care that something else was getting harder and harder…
He yanked out a thread a little more forcefully than was necessary. House hissed, but the hand didn’t stop its attentions. Wilson spoke mostly to keep himself from humming in appreciation. “Do you need to sit down?”
Now the hand did pause. “No,” House said slowly, savoring the word, tasting it, making it last because it was probably the first time in six years he had answered that question with a ‘no’ and not been lying.
Another twist of thread fluttered into the general vicinity of the sink as Wilson shook his scissors over the basin, dimly aware that it would be a mess to clean up later. Meanwhile, House’s left hand had joined the right, slipping casually onto Wilson’s hunched shoulder and drifting down his back with slow friction…
“I’m trying to work, here,” he protested in a way he knew would only encourage more unfamiliar affection.
“So am I.” It was breathed into his ear, the soft warmth a test.
Wilson was failing it, miserably. One final suture mocked him from the corner of the jagged scar and all he could think about was the way House’s eyes were glittering, the smug little grin, the fingers that had somehow found their way to Wilson’s tie.
“I’m nearly done,” came the squeaked response and suddenly Wilson felt like a teenager again, wanting to touch, but knowing he shouldn’t, because House’s Mom or Dad or Cuddy would be mad if he tried to feel up their recently shot son.
Of course, he’d lost the battle to hormones back then, too; no reason now should be any different, especially when this was possibly the most intense physical relationship he could remember, not that he cared to remember, not that he could form coherent thoughts as the tie slipped off and guitar-calloused fingers started working his shirt open-
“Trust me,” the first button gave up and allowed House’s breath and touch against the exposed clavicle, “you’re just getting started.”
Wilson felt an instant, adolescent blush, realized that House probably noticed, and blushed harder. “Is there anything you can’t make about sex?” He placed a steadying left hand on House’s chest and removed the last suture, then tossed the scissors into the sink with a clatter, freeing his fingers for more enjoyable activities. Namely, wrapping themselves around House’s pelvic bone.
“I’m not the one with the scar fetish.” He let his forehead thud softly against Wilson’s, his hands going to work, untucking the shirt, undoing the remaining buttons, letting the air between their mouths mix and ignite.
Even lost among sexual tension, warm breath, and strong fingers, Wilson could feel the difference. House’s weight was evenly balanced, his hips and shoulders in a straight line, leaning toward Wilson because he wanted to, not because he had to. He was standing. Normal, at least physically. Wilson wondered how long it would be before the looking-glass would break.
“Does it hurt?” and the stilled fingers on the last button told him that House knew the question did not concern bruised, healing bullet wounds.
He pulled back and Wilson read the ‘no’ in his smirk, in eyes not swollen by drugs. House pushed the opened dress shirt down to hang on Wilson’s elbows, the air cooling fresh sweat briefly before somewhat abrasive lips found their way to Wilson’s neck.
He melted unabashedly into the touch, shutting his eyes, arching his neck, wriggling the rest of the way out of his shirt before his doubts could sabotage him.
But lingering under a haze of arousal were little bubbles of worry. House’s prematurely un-stitched wound, his pain-free but still weakened leg, the fact that they hadn’t talked about this new, foreign, eerily normal life the shooting and ketamine had given them-
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” and it’s whispered because maybe he doesn’t want to know if House is not ready for this, because his own body is aching for it, because his hips don’t seem to want to keep from pushing forward.
House tangled a hand into the back of Wilson’s hair, holding him still, possessing him, speaking huskily into his ear. “I’ve been ready for this for six years.”
He punctuated his words with slow kisses up a willing jaw, ending in an exclamation point, darting his tongue out to lick the corner of Wilson’s parted lips…
His mouth tastes different, Wilson swears it does. It’s softer, warmer, wet and pliant with saliva without the bitter taste of dry-swallowed Vicodin. Kissing him is so easy, yet exhausting, letting that beautifully slick tongue slide over his own, pushing back when it seems appropriate, trying not to laugh because he can’t taste a trace of acrid pills on House’s lips.
It’s only been a few minutes, but Wilson is already moaning softly into House’s mouth, thinking he should be a little embarrassed that House can so easily tear him apart, thinking he should stop thinking as fumbling hands touched every part of bare skin in reach, then turned him purposefully toward the wall, his now fully enthusiastic hard-on whipping around with him like a pistol under tightening pants.
This is different, too. He is no stranger to being eased backward by House, to a bed, a wall, to the desk that one time after checking the hallways for wayward patients. Wilson is used to supporting them both, keeping them steady since House can’t, used to the way their lips are jarred with every other step.
But now it’s different, subtle but there, as he’s pushed straight back with a thud into the wall, no need to surreptitiously keep his left hand under House’s right elbow. He could sense the way the muscles were working under the beginnings of sweat, could feel the more evenly distributed weight, could tell that balance was the last thing House was worried about at the moment. He was still leading with his left, however, still weak from years of too much pain to exercise, still missing muscle, still not ready for anything overly ambitious.
“So, where to?” his voice gravelly, stealing quick, hard kisses between words, “Which wildly inappropriate piece of furniture do I get to bend you over first?”
Wilson swallowed a moan just from hearing the words but could not stop his fingers from unbuttoning House’s jeans. “You can’t rush this.”
House hitched his breath slightly as Wilson slid the zipper down slowly over a warm bulge. “Who’s rushing?”
“You know what I mean,” he took a break from undressing House long enough to snake his hand through the fly of tented boxers, “nothing too athletic. Your leg has atrophied; it’s vulnerable to strain. It’d be great for you to pull a thigh muscle just when you’re finally pain-free.” He covered his concern by running a thumb down a pulsing erection.
“Bastard,” House said, then kissed him hotly, “depriving a man recently un-crippled the simple pleasure of fucking you through mattresses and couches. Or pianos.”
“Well,” Wilson gasped, taking back his hands and frantically going to work on his own belt, “just for now. Sign up for physical therapy tomorrow.” He moaned as House slid his hands down the back of now-loosened trousers. “Please.”
“Who needs some med school drop-out telling me to ‘visualize the healing’ when I’ve got my own hot personal fitness instructor right here?” Wandering fingers slid down, slid in between, teased at sensitive opening-
“Mmm,” was the closest he could manage to a sarcastic ‘yes,’ using both hands to pull House in for a quick series of kisses, “but I don’t want to hurt you. PT tomorrow,” he rolled House’s unbuttoned jeans and boxers down below his hips, “then we can talk about that piano thing.”
“Don’t worry,” he reached down and did the same favor for Wilson, who gasped at the sensation of an appreciatively hard cock against his own, “I plan on keeping a list. Pianos, park benches, clinical exam tables, in the university pool-“
“Wherever you want,” the words spilled out of his mouth and a tiny part of his brain was already regretting the promise, “if you do the PT and after a specialist clears you.” Secretly, his heart flared: House was healthy, maybe one day happy, but he had to do this the right way, had to admit he needed help if he were to regain function lost six years ago. “We have time," and he knew they did, knew the ketamine would take because going back was not an option.
A glimmer of some kind of fear or cynicism stole through House’s eyes, but it was gone the next second, when Wilson wrapped a hand around their joined, heavy erections and began to play. House groaned and leaned in to bite Wilson’s shoulder, and Wilson felt himself sliding a few inches across the sweat-slicked wall and moaning with the sharp, delicious sensation.
“So what’d you have in mind, Killjoy?” Evenly balanced hips ground slowly into Wilson’s own, multiplying rough friction in his hand. “Jerking off in a bathroom seems a little juvenile. Think we can find a better way to celebrate my miraculous recovery?”
Personally, Wilson was sure he’d be able to come just from this, just from House’s words, from the hand that had slipped in between them to involve his balls in the discussion. But, he reasoned, as well as one could reason when strong fingers were pressing upward against his perineum and tickling his prostate, this was a special occasion.
He jerked his head to the right, to the innocent-looking shower behind a fluttering vanilla curtain. “Suppose we could get a little more creative.”
He felt House smile into the bite mark on his shoulder and wished he could see it. House’s true smiles were a rare atmospheric phenomenon. He settled for tangling his fingers in the back of House’s hair, slumping his head back against the wall as warm, wet kisses erupted down his collarbone. He allowed a smile of his own. House clearly liked the idea.
He didn’t do well in the shower, or standing at all. In fact, Wilson sometimes wondered how House even got in and out without help, without the safety rails he flatly refused to install. Their infrequent attempts at this had been more about simple time-saving amusement than anything serious, although Wilson enjoyed the closeness.
But now, only five days after the ketamine, the leg was already less of an issue. How much would change? How much of it would be for the better?
He pushed the thought aside, because some things wouldn’t change, like the way it felt to have his fingers in House’s hair, around his cock, the little needy noise he made when Wilson kissed the top of his head and slipped out from under him, walking out of his slacks and underwear on his way to the bathtub.
He leaned over-a bit farther than was strictly necessary, perhaps-to turn on the shower, enjoying the feel of House’s eyes on him as much as the sound of him walking up behind, jeans hitting the floor, low voice spilling chills up Wilson’s spine, “Nice view.”
“Just wait,” he blushed, but a thrill was in his chest as he pulled back the shower curtain and stepped under the warm spray, turning around in time to catch House eyeing him.
House was kissing him in a second, the tub wall not a problem without pain, only hesitating to lift his still-weakened right side in after his left. But the water was hot, the kisses long and slow, the pressure of his erection perfect against Wilson’s, and he wrapped his hand back around them both, spreading out the warm droplets of water.
“Jerking off in the shower,” House said into his mouth, a thumb circling Wilson’s nipple under trails of hot water, “Still not exactly every guy’s fantasy.”
Wilson disagreed, as House was standing upright with him under the shower head, no need to lean against the wall; hot, chlorinated water flavoring each kiss, clinging to House’s eyelashes and facial hair, dangling from his jaw like teardrops. Just begging to be sucked off, like wet sandpaper on Wilson's lips and tongue. And by the way House was grinding his cock furiously into Wilson’s fist, the man was obviously more impressed than he let on.
“Sorry to bore you,” he muttered into House’s neck, his eyes closed, blindly seeking out House’s mouth again as he rubbed them both, faster, using his other hand for more friction, obeying a drive that was much more powerful than House’s half-hearted complaints.
“Mmm…’m not complaining,” he’d read Wilson’s mind, “Not your fault you have no imagination.”
“And what exactly do you suggest, Dr. Ruth?”
“Turn around.”
Wilson pulled back and look at him, sure that he looked comically skeptical.
“Oh, relax,” House said, and dipped his head to lick hot shower water running down Wilson’s breastbone. “Nothing too intense till I go to PT like a good boy, I got it. Trust me.”
‘Trust me’ coming from House was never followed by anything good; it always reminded Wilson of old fables from childhood, the crow that stupidly trusted the fox and ended up dying a horrible death.
But House grinned at him and he rolled his eyes, because that was all it took for him to turn around, move to the back end of the shower, and brace himself with both hands against cold tile until the shower’s hot sprinkles were only hitting the backs of his legs, lowering his head and speaking into his chest. “I’m ready to be enlightened.”
He could hear House smirking, along with the click of some plastic bottle cap being snapped open. He wasn’t sure if he should be apprehensive or just give into the increasing tingle of intrigue in the pit of his stomach.
He angled his body, dropped his head to watch water fall from his hair to a part of his body begging for attention. Suddenly something cold fell on his neck and he gasped, lifted his head back against long fingers that were working a soft, familiar, thickly fragranced substance into the back of his neck, ghosting through the ends of his hair-
“Is that my conditioner?” House’s fingers warmed the soft liquid, drifting down Wilson’s skin in a kind of slow massage that Wilson allowed himself to believe was affection, down to his shoulder, his spine, sliding around to his chest and downward-
“Figured the stuff’s gotta be useful for something,” and how had Wilson never realized how soft and slick the hair care product became against his skin, so much better than soap, melting his muscles into butter under House’s fingers.
Protests that the conditioner was specially formulated and eight dollars a bottle and that lube was cheaper were driven out completely when those impossibly slick and wet fingers found the base of his shaft, squeezed it between thumb and two fingers, coaxed out bolts of sensation that seemed to hit his entire body.
He groaned, squeezed his eyes shut and instinctively angled his body more, bending forward, opening himself, offering-
“This is much more interesting,” grumbled into Wilson’s ear, and he felt his offer being cordially accepted, House pressing himself against his ass, not inside, not even trying, but in between, that same viscous slickness coating the resistance.
Wilson arched his head back. This was interesting, subtle, slow stroking across his entrance, not thrusting but rubbing, the tip pressing against his scrotum, hair conditioner of all things keeping this from being dry humping. The proximity, the possibility of penetration was more of a turn-on than anything, slick hardness teasing under a tight ring of muscle, brushing so gently under his prostate that it hurt. Leave it to House, he thought, to come up with such a creative solution.
There would be no strain on the leg, not if this continued, not if House simply kept himself here and let the hot water hit their backs, rocking gently, well-conditioned hand spreading bubbles and intense pleasure up and down Wilson’s length. Wilson, for his part, did his best to keep up, pushing back, rhythmically clenching recently well-exercised muscles around House.
He groaned and Wilson wished he could feel it, wished the angle didn’t require the space between his back and House’s chest, but the next second he was groaning himself, the noise pulled from him through his penis, House finishing off each stroke with a slick, squeezing twist.
“Fuck,” he hissed, palms sliding down the tile.
“You said no. Don’t tell me you’re regretting that choice?”
He saw the smug grin in front of his eyes, but it was soon replaced by stars as another twisted stroke was followed by a particularly strong forward rock and the pressure over his entrance and under his prostate made him swear again in a moan, made his muscles clench, made House bite down a sharp cry…
For a second, Wilson thought he had come without noticing, thought the hot, thick liquid being washed down his leg with tepid shower water was his own. He wasn’t used to finishing last. But House relaxed his hips, his mouth found Wilson’s back, and his hand and ejaculate on Wilson’s length was enough, more than enough, and barely a minute had passed before his own release was trickling towards the drain with House’s, trickling down with the bathwater.
He turned around slowly, almost cautiously, wanting House to speak first, but knowing he wouldn’t. “You-" he couldn’t stop the grin, “--that seemed a little too easy.”
House shrugged, moved sideways back under the shower head, kept his eyes down. “Amazing what that ass of yours can do, given the right circumstances.”
“The right circumstances being you off the Vicodin?”
He pulled Wilson under the rapidly cooling water with him. “Well. That and your girly conditioner over there,” he grabbed up the still-open and now half-empty bottle.
“Now I’m going to run out of the conditioner before the shampoo,” he said sleepily, taking the bottle from House. “I’ll be forever stuck in a curve of having either too much shampoo or too little conditioner.”
“So we’ll use the shampoo next time,” he leered.
Wilson kissed him until the water ran completely cold.
House dressed quickly, pulling on shorts and pajama pants before Wilson had even reached the bedroom. The pain was gone, but his scar wasn’t. Wilson decided to save that particular discussion for some other time.
He cleaned up House’s ripped-out sutures but left the discarded clothing on the floor. He had lost his best excuse for not cleaning up after himself. Wilson was both excited and nervous about how much would change now.
It was almost awkward. House could have gotten his own glass of water, but Wilson brought one anyway, just like he usually did on nights he slept over. As he pulled back the covers, he caught himself looking around the room for House’s cane, as he was so used to locating it before bed. Pain had been House’s routine for so long. Wilson didn’t quite know how to act-
Until a hiss reached his ears as he turned out the light. “You okay?”
He heard the rub of flesh against fabric. “Fine.”
Wilson moved over the bed like a bat, his eyes still adjusting to the glow of moonlight. House wasn’t rubbing his thigh, as usual, as predicted, as feared. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his palm clamped over his chest, inches from the wounded ribcage.
Wilson blindly crawled up behind him, scared to say anything, knowing that he should. “It’s not bleeding, is it?”
A pause. “No.”
“We shouldn’t have gotten it wet, House.” Now it was going to be irritated all night, probably get infected since House hadn’t bothered to keep his sutures in. Wilson was an idiot, he never should have let it go--
“It’s fine.” He swung his left leg onto the bed, picking up and dragging his right leg behind like he did every night, but this time, the painful grimace was coming from his neck and side, not his leg.
Wilson swallowed fear. “Where are your pills?” It was a question he thought he was done with. “I know you had a few left-“
“Just leave it alone.”
“House,” and he shut his eyes because he had really hoped this conversation wouldn’t be necessary, “it’s fine if you need them. You were on them for five years; it’s going to take time. You don’t have to be in pain just because you’re-“
“Going to sleep, now.” Wilson heard annoyance there, of course. Denial, fear. But he also heard pain, and he sensed the tension of House’s muscles as he settled in next to him in the dark, not daring to touch.
It had been Wilson’s fault, or at least half his fault, for allowing this; House hadn’t been ready for sex, or at least, not all parts of him had been. What if he’d pulled at the wound? What must it feel like? House shouldn’t have to be in pain, not anymore.
“I threw them out,” he mumbled suddenly.
Wilson breathed deeply for several seconds. “Why?”
“I didn’t need them. Much like I don’t need this conversation.”
“You didn’t need them,” he repeated. “House, you just got shot. You’ve got a long road of physical therapy ahead of you-“
“What is it with you?” His side of the bed shifted and Wilson could feel him drawing away. “I take the pills, you whine; I don’t take them, and now you’re pissed.”
“Because it’s just as irresponsible for you to let yourself be in pain than it is for you to knock back pills when you don’t need them. You’re going to be in pain, you won’t be able to do your physical therapy, then the next thing you know, your leg starts deteriorating.” Then he’d be back with the cane, forced back to the pills, left with only a renewed memory of what it felt like to be healthy. He’d thrown out his pills because they made him weak, reminded him of a life he was so close to moving past. Two weeks ago, Wilson would have been thrilled if House wanted to cut back on Vicodin. Now, he saw it for what it was: just a new way for House to self-destruct.
He could understand-he was perversely proud -that House wanted to give the pills up…but he was upset, afraid, confused that House saw no problem in allowing himself to be in pain.
He shifted a few inches closer to House’s turned back, reached out a hand to find his shoulder-
“Stop it,” he said, before Wilson had even touched him. “Either go to sleep or go give your speech to the walls in your hotel room.”
He let his arm drop heavily, turned over, burrowed further into the covers. He thought maybe he’d be warmer if he did go back to his hotel room; House had left two feet and twenty years of distance between them.
House couldn’t accept Wilson’s concern for him. He couldn’t talk about whether he was scared or happy or in pain. He couldn’t trust. He couldn’t allow this new thing between them to expand beyond the physical, beyond carefully caged banter.
Wilson curled into a ball, colder than if he had been alone. House was, despite everything, still a cripple.
Next chapter: House starts physical therapy. Wilson...helps :)
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