(no subject)
Title: Queens
Author: magie_05
Pairing: duh
Rating/Warnings: NC-17
Summary: Just some early-relationship-type smut :)
They only fuck outside of town.
Blow jobs in broom closets, jerking off on House's sofa - it somehow doesn't count. It's easier to avoid talking about, even when he wakes up with his head on Wilson's chest, or shows up at work with very undignified marks along his jaw. That's just blowing off steam, the way it's always been since Wilson moved to Princeton. But out-of-town Monster Truck Jams, week-long conferences in Baltimore - there, they can go as far as they want, and it's somehow okay.
Besides, after that first time in New Orleans, it sort of pays homage to tradition.
He didn't say much when Wilson casually mentioned some all-night Jazz Fest in Queens, minus the obligatory pun. But he could tell by the lilt in Wilson's voice, the twitch at the corner of his lips, the slow track of his middle finger as he slid the ticket across House's desk - it would be worth the drive.
The next Friday night, he finds himself in some run-down 'historical' club, listening to some hack mangle Coltrane, sipping absurdly expensive Scotch and watching the play of smoky neon over Wilson's face.
"We drove through Manhattan for this?" He swirls a finger around the rim of his glass, a cigar clenched in his teeth. "If you wanted to hear a bunch of cats being run over - "
"It's the first act!" Wilson calls back over the noise. "Did I complain when you dragged me to that fake wrestling thing in Trenton?"
"It wasn't fake," he half-shouts, not caring that it probably was. "I heard that one guy's shoulder separate. Besides, you know you liked the sweat and Spandex."
Wilson smiles back even though the surrounding tables must have heard.
No one knows them here.
"Well, I didn't bring you with me so you could bitch the entire time." He's leaning back in the spindly wooden chair, one elbow resting on the table, the soft cotton sleeves of his sweater rolled back. Even in a room lit only by multi-colored spots and strings of Christmas lights, House can read that body language.
He takes an extra-long pull on the cigar and slides his chair a bit closer, until he can smell Wilson's aftershave through the smoke. "So why did you bring me here?" He leans in to push the words into Wilson's ear, to gauge his reaction, to make sure his voice is the only thing Wilson came to hear. “No one you like is playing this thing. And even if they were, you wouldn't shell out for gas and a hotel, not for something you want. So, I gotta ask myself,” he puts a hand on the back of Wilson's chair and leans in even closer, “what are we really doing out here?”
Despite the loud, semi-drunken conversation and the haze of sharps and flats hovering around them, he can almost hear Wilson's blood humming, rushing into his face and, presumably, much lower. “Having an enjoyable evening,” he says, not making eye contact as he takes the cigar from House's hand and stubs it out in the glass ashtray. “Besides,” and this time he leans his head back to speak inches from House's (slightly open) mouth, “that conference in Philly isn't for another six months.”
House is leading him towards the exit within the next six seconds.
The hotel room door is dark green, and that's about the only detail House can gather before he's turned around and slammed into it, Wilson's hands up his shirt, nipping harshly at his lips. The elevator dings over Wilson's shoulder and House thinks he should say something about the wizened septuagenarian couple gawking at them -
But fuck it; it's New York.
Wilson practically devours him as he blindly fumbles with the key card, just barely catching the front of House's leather jacket before he falls backwards into the room. He's using the same firm grip to strip the jacket from House's shoulders a second later, the door closing behind him with a solid thud. He backs House into the nearest interior wall, into (what feels like) the room's light switch, which he is presuming they aren't going to be needing any time soon.
“Oh, God,” Wilson sighs into his mouth, tugging House's hips forward, “I didn't think we were ever going to get here.” He runs a hand up House's inseam to his crotch.
“Told you not to take...the tunnel.” He can only speak when he's not gasping for breath, when Wilson's tongue isn't surging into his mouth. “B-besides, we passed like fifty fleabags on the way; what's so special about this place?”
Wilson pulls back just enough to smirk shyly at him in the room's orangish glow. “I made these reservations a week before I heard about the jazz thing,” he says, and runs his tongue up the side of House's neck.
He gathers his wits just long enough to tug off Wilson's sweater and undershirt, tossing the whole crumpled ball into some obscure corner. After that, he's a little distracted by the soft expanse of skin under his palms, the thirsty kisses moving across every inch of skin from his mouth to his collarbone, the hands slipping down the back of his jeans. Wilson's blatantly conspicuous hard-on rubbing against his feels so annoyingly good that he has to speak to keep from moaning. “So...you just dragged me out here...for a quick fuck?”
Wilson shuts him up with a series of kisses, doing something with his tongue that House thinks might be illegal in some states. “Who said anything about it being 'quick?' We've got the room 'til eleven. On Sunday,” he adds, unzipping House's fly.
From there, it's a rather short track to the bed.
He can smell the cigar smoke in Wilson's hair, mingling with sweat and shampoo to become simply intoxicating, impossible to keep his hands out of. He only lets go when the bed gets in the way, fumbling with the clasp of Wilson's high-dollar jeans and then shoving him to the mattress, taking in the view: shirtless on his back with his mouth slightly open, hair splayed out on the covers, chest heaving and cock straining against tight fabric -
They are going to have to get away more often.
He doesn't allow himself to miss this in Jersey. No point dwelling on something he can't have. Not just the sex, of course; Wilson would give it up in a supermarket. It's the implications. The certain, inescapable reality of his cock up Wilson's ass.
The fact that these stolen nights in cheap hotels are sometimes the closest he gets to 'home.'
But he pushes the regrets (or lack thereof) aside for the moment, focusing on what he's got in front of him. He grabs the loose denim on Wilson's thighs and starts to tug, but sweaty palms grip his wrists, halting the progress. Wilson holds eye contact but is panting too quickly to speak as one hand digs around in a side pocket, extracting a slightly squashed white tube.
House snorts. “You've been carrying this around all day?”
In answer, Wilson gives a lip-biting smirk and presses it into House's hand, wriggling out of his pants. He doesn't have to make excuses or pretend he didn't plan this, not here. At home, there's a plausible distance, whispered curses and stifled moans, the 'it just happened' excuse always within reach. Here -
House doesn't have to pretend he's not relishing the taste of Wilson's skin, his mouth, the throbbing pulse at his neck, the beads of sweat along his collarbone. He can take his time, wordlessly coaxing Wilson to lay flat, tongue lingering over certain sensitive points - the groove behind his ear, the hollow of his throat, that spot below his rib cage. He can breathe in that scent, taste it, let the molecules of Wilson's lust and fragrance and identity seep into his pores. The soft but desperate grunts filling the room, the thick fingers twining in his hair push him lower, push him into leaving little bite marks through the line of hair below Wilson's navel, running the flat of his tongue along the endless steppe of skin above his crotch.
When he surprises himself with a groan, at least it's muffled by Wilson's cock.
He practically jumps out of his skin when House takes him in his mouth, pushing up his hips and slamming back against the headboard. A cut-off cry and fingers curling in his hair, his nails pressing into Wilson's thighs, soft, thick length of cock in his mouth and that taste - he forgets himself, the location, the various unspoken rules of this arrangement and doesn't stop until the tip of Wilson's cock hits the back of his throat.
Judging by the loud, ragged groans bouncing off the ceiling, rising steadily in pitch with every inhale, Wilson is by no means opposed to this course of action, hips working slowly in instinctual rhythm. But he shudders and starts pushing at House's shoulders, tugging at his hair when he finds that House is unwilling to let go without a fight. “S-stop,” he gasps, staring down his heaving chest into House's eyes. “I didn't drive all this way to come in the first five minutes.”
House thinks he may have actually growled a little as he surged back up the mattress, but no one seems to care - least of all Wilson, ripping off the rest of House's clothing, crushing him with kisses, wrapping a leg around his waist...
The gel is warm from spending all day in Wilson's pocket, ready for this moment, ready to slip inside him on House's fingers. He takes this opportunity to explore, pressing up behind Wilson's balls with slick fingers while Wilson kisses him, the earth-bitter taste of his cock replaced with the sweet lushness of his mouth. Warmth and smooth muscles and just the right amount of pain as House pressed against him, into him, cocks rubbing together, passing the same hot, damp breath back and forth between parted lips.
He would have made it last, wanted to make it last, but Wilson was grabbing his wrist, pressing their foreheads together, staring at House with blown pupils - wordlessly begging for it.
“Christ.” He pulls back just enough to grab Wilson's shoulder, force him half onto his side, line himself up against Wilson's back. The sight of his arching spine sends House into an instant flashback of the last time - of any time, in another strange bed or in the middle of the day, watching Wilson massage the back of his neck with one hand in the collar of his lab coat and remembering the shape of each vertebrae, the way Wilson's skin feels against his mouth -
He smears a handful of lubricant over his cock and positions himself, one hand pressed to the mattress, forearm under Wilson's knee to hold the angle. He keeps his mouth clamped shut as he watches Wilson squirm in the low light, muttering supplications to the pillow, mouth open and eyes squeezed shut...House takes a breath and pushes firmly in -
It's always worth the wait.
Wilson leans back into him and lets out a sound of pure relief, moaning loud enough for both of them. House wills himself to go slow, even though he's shaking with the effort, fighting for air and silence, his breath too hot for his lungs. Of course, these efforts prove to be in vain when Wilson reaches back to grab his hip, presses back and urges him deeper, faster, “oh God.”
He drags his lips along Wilson's shoulders while he waits for the shaking to subside, feeling the vibrations of Wilson's voice against his chest, soft noises of pleasure and more than a little pain. Sometimes he wonders if Wilson wants the pain, needs it, wants to feel for days what he might not have for months.
House knows the feeling.
But he can't think past each second, buried in silk with Wilson's hips rocking against his, Wilson's hand holding them close. He thrusts in hard and hits just the right spot, making Wilson cry out and arch his back, tossing his head back onto House's shoulder. This is what he misses the most: Wilson moving with him, wanting him, letting himself lose control. He cries out with every thrust, a curse or House's name, not even bothering to restrain his volume, reaching up to grab the bedpost, wanting more.
His hand fumbles down for Wilson's cock, still wet with his own saliva. The reaction this earns him is something he'll burn into his brain, remember it on all those nights when he sits alone, not-thinking in his apartment.
“Oh, fuck,” Wilson all but shouts, and pushes his cock further into House's grip, working his hips furiously, kissing the only part of House's body he can reach. “Holy shit,” he says breathlessly into House's forearm, muffling his speech. “Oh, House, I missed - I miss - God, harder.”
Can't argue with that.
He groans and starts pushing Wilson onto all fours, rolling him to his stomach, holding onto his hips. The angle lets him push in deeper, rips a sound from his lungs, makes his vision swim and his pulse speed up. He figures that after Wilson's blurted little confession, he can get away with the low moans issuing from the back of his throat, pressed into Wilson's hair, hidden against the back of his neck. No point hiding how much he wants this, not with Wilson squirming underneath him, all four of his limbs clawing at the sheets. He gasps when House grabs the top edge of the mattress and pistons into him, hissing as the pace increases, bracing his forehead against the pillows. Heat, sweat, friction. Groans and the creaking of the well-practiced bed frame. Close his eyes, and House can pretend this isn't a farce, something he'll tell himself doesn't mean anything the second they're back across the state line.
He can forget that it's something he wants.
Wilson stiffens and chokes out House's name, adding a generous DNA sample to the invisible mosaic in the sheets.
He lies there for a long time after he comes, feeling Wilson's breathing slow, running the tips of his fingers through drying sweat. “Worth the drive?” he murmurs against Wilson's temple.
Wilson makes sleepy little noises of contentment as he gently rearranges their limbs, pulling House's chest against his, pressing their foreheads together, sliding his hands up House's back - the kind of touch that only comes easily in these unfamiliar rooms.
He pretends to fall asleep with Wilson's thick arms wrapped around him, and tries to believe this isn't the part he misses most.
“So I've been thinking,” he announces the next morning, propped up on his side and watching Wilson tie his shoelaces, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Are you thinking about brushing your hair, or auditioning for an 80's revival band?” he grins, reaches over and tousles House's hair even more.
Looking disgustingly happy.
“I was thinking - if we're going to drive a hundred miles every time you're in the mood, we could single-handedly deplete this country's oil supply in the next five years.”
Wilson laughs sheepishly and starts fiddling with his belt. “Very eco-conscious of you.”
“It's really sort of a waste,” he blurts out and watches Wilson's features fall almost imperceptibly, fading quickly to quiet acceptance.
“Oh,” Wilson says to his lap. “Right.”
That awkward air is back, that twinge in House's stomach that only comes around at the end of these trips. The specter of going home or homosexuality - or worse, a meaningful relationship - hanging between them.
“So the way I see it, there's only one solution,” he says, watching Wilson nod to himself in resignation.
House shrugs. “Just gonna have to start fucking at my place.”
Wilson's instantly stifled relief jerks a smile out from somewhere in House's chest. "Just your place?" he asks with raised eyebrows.
"Spent enough time in hotels." He tries not to panic as Wilson lies down next to him, fully clothed and in the middle of the day. "'Course, if you want to get really particular about it, it's kind of pointless for you to drive all the way across town just to eat noodles and get naked with me."
Wilson looks about as terrified and perplexed as House feels. "Are you saying you want me to move back in?"
"I'm just pointing out the technicalities." He rolls over to face the water-spotted ceiling. "What you do with this information is your business."
Wilson lies there silent for a length of time which is potentially insulting. Then - "I guess your way does make a certain kind of sense." His hand is warm and firm as it wraps slowly around House's forearm. "But I have to know - what brought this on all of a sudden?"
He thinks about all the other nights they've spent not-sleeping in out-of-town hotels, increasing dramatically in frequency every few months. He thinks about what he'll be going home to - from sort of/not-really sex to a sort of/not-really relationship, and all it took was ten years.
"Had to be Queens," he mumbles, and pulls Wilson against his chest.
Author: magie_05
Pairing: duh
Rating/Warnings: NC-17
Summary: Just some early-relationship-type smut :)
They only fuck outside of town.
Blow jobs in broom closets, jerking off on House's sofa - it somehow doesn't count. It's easier to avoid talking about, even when he wakes up with his head on Wilson's chest, or shows up at work with very undignified marks along his jaw. That's just blowing off steam, the way it's always been since Wilson moved to Princeton. But out-of-town Monster Truck Jams, week-long conferences in Baltimore - there, they can go as far as they want, and it's somehow okay.
Besides, after that first time in New Orleans, it sort of pays homage to tradition.
He didn't say much when Wilson casually mentioned some all-night Jazz Fest in Queens, minus the obligatory pun. But he could tell by the lilt in Wilson's voice, the twitch at the corner of his lips, the slow track of his middle finger as he slid the ticket across House's desk - it would be worth the drive.
The next Friday night, he finds himself in some run-down 'historical' club, listening to some hack mangle Coltrane, sipping absurdly expensive Scotch and watching the play of smoky neon over Wilson's face.
"We drove through Manhattan for this?" He swirls a finger around the rim of his glass, a cigar clenched in his teeth. "If you wanted to hear a bunch of cats being run over - "
"It's the first act!" Wilson calls back over the noise. "Did I complain when you dragged me to that fake wrestling thing in Trenton?"
"It wasn't fake," he half-shouts, not caring that it probably was. "I heard that one guy's shoulder separate. Besides, you know you liked the sweat and Spandex."
Wilson smiles back even though the surrounding tables must have heard.
No one knows them here.
"Well, I didn't bring you with me so you could bitch the entire time." He's leaning back in the spindly wooden chair, one elbow resting on the table, the soft cotton sleeves of his sweater rolled back. Even in a room lit only by multi-colored spots and strings of Christmas lights, House can read that body language.
He takes an extra-long pull on the cigar and slides his chair a bit closer, until he can smell Wilson's aftershave through the smoke. "So why did you bring me here?" He leans in to push the words into Wilson's ear, to gauge his reaction, to make sure his voice is the only thing Wilson came to hear. “No one you like is playing this thing. And even if they were, you wouldn't shell out for gas and a hotel, not for something you want. So, I gotta ask myself,” he puts a hand on the back of Wilson's chair and leans in even closer, “what are we really doing out here?”
Despite the loud, semi-drunken conversation and the haze of sharps and flats hovering around them, he can almost hear Wilson's blood humming, rushing into his face and, presumably, much lower. “Having an enjoyable evening,” he says, not making eye contact as he takes the cigar from House's hand and stubs it out in the glass ashtray. “Besides,” and this time he leans his head back to speak inches from House's (slightly open) mouth, “that conference in Philly isn't for another six months.”
House is leading him towards the exit within the next six seconds.
The hotel room door is dark green, and that's about the only detail House can gather before he's turned around and slammed into it, Wilson's hands up his shirt, nipping harshly at his lips. The elevator dings over Wilson's shoulder and House thinks he should say something about the wizened septuagenarian couple gawking at them -
But fuck it; it's New York.
Wilson practically devours him as he blindly fumbles with the key card, just barely catching the front of House's leather jacket before he falls backwards into the room. He's using the same firm grip to strip the jacket from House's shoulders a second later, the door closing behind him with a solid thud. He backs House into the nearest interior wall, into (what feels like) the room's light switch, which he is presuming they aren't going to be needing any time soon.
“Oh, God,” Wilson sighs into his mouth, tugging House's hips forward, “I didn't think we were ever going to get here.” He runs a hand up House's inseam to his crotch.
“Told you not to take...the tunnel.” He can only speak when he's not gasping for breath, when Wilson's tongue isn't surging into his mouth. “B-besides, we passed like fifty fleabags on the way; what's so special about this place?”
Wilson pulls back just enough to smirk shyly at him in the room's orangish glow. “I made these reservations a week before I heard about the jazz thing,” he says, and runs his tongue up the side of House's neck.
He gathers his wits just long enough to tug off Wilson's sweater and undershirt, tossing the whole crumpled ball into some obscure corner. After that, he's a little distracted by the soft expanse of skin under his palms, the thirsty kisses moving across every inch of skin from his mouth to his collarbone, the hands slipping down the back of his jeans. Wilson's blatantly conspicuous hard-on rubbing against his feels so annoyingly good that he has to speak to keep from moaning. “So...you just dragged me out here...for a quick fuck?”
Wilson shuts him up with a series of kisses, doing something with his tongue that House thinks might be illegal in some states. “Who said anything about it being 'quick?' We've got the room 'til eleven. On Sunday,” he adds, unzipping House's fly.
From there, it's a rather short track to the bed.
He can smell the cigar smoke in Wilson's hair, mingling with sweat and shampoo to become simply intoxicating, impossible to keep his hands out of. He only lets go when the bed gets in the way, fumbling with the clasp of Wilson's high-dollar jeans and then shoving him to the mattress, taking in the view: shirtless on his back with his mouth slightly open, hair splayed out on the covers, chest heaving and cock straining against tight fabric -
They are going to have to get away more often.
He doesn't allow himself to miss this in Jersey. No point dwelling on something he can't have. Not just the sex, of course; Wilson would give it up in a supermarket. It's the implications. The certain, inescapable reality of his cock up Wilson's ass.
The fact that these stolen nights in cheap hotels are sometimes the closest he gets to 'home.'
But he pushes the regrets (or lack thereof) aside for the moment, focusing on what he's got in front of him. He grabs the loose denim on Wilson's thighs and starts to tug, but sweaty palms grip his wrists, halting the progress. Wilson holds eye contact but is panting too quickly to speak as one hand digs around in a side pocket, extracting a slightly squashed white tube.
House snorts. “You've been carrying this around all day?”
In answer, Wilson gives a lip-biting smirk and presses it into House's hand, wriggling out of his pants. He doesn't have to make excuses or pretend he didn't plan this, not here. At home, there's a plausible distance, whispered curses and stifled moans, the 'it just happened' excuse always within reach. Here -
House doesn't have to pretend he's not relishing the taste of Wilson's skin, his mouth, the throbbing pulse at his neck, the beads of sweat along his collarbone. He can take his time, wordlessly coaxing Wilson to lay flat, tongue lingering over certain sensitive points - the groove behind his ear, the hollow of his throat, that spot below his rib cage. He can breathe in that scent, taste it, let the molecules of Wilson's lust and fragrance and identity seep into his pores. The soft but desperate grunts filling the room, the thick fingers twining in his hair push him lower, push him into leaving little bite marks through the line of hair below Wilson's navel, running the flat of his tongue along the endless steppe of skin above his crotch.
When he surprises himself with a groan, at least it's muffled by Wilson's cock.
He practically jumps out of his skin when House takes him in his mouth, pushing up his hips and slamming back against the headboard. A cut-off cry and fingers curling in his hair, his nails pressing into Wilson's thighs, soft, thick length of cock in his mouth and that taste - he forgets himself, the location, the various unspoken rules of this arrangement and doesn't stop until the tip of Wilson's cock hits the back of his throat.
Judging by the loud, ragged groans bouncing off the ceiling, rising steadily in pitch with every inhale, Wilson is by no means opposed to this course of action, hips working slowly in instinctual rhythm. But he shudders and starts pushing at House's shoulders, tugging at his hair when he finds that House is unwilling to let go without a fight. “S-stop,” he gasps, staring down his heaving chest into House's eyes. “I didn't drive all this way to come in the first five minutes.”
House thinks he may have actually growled a little as he surged back up the mattress, but no one seems to care - least of all Wilson, ripping off the rest of House's clothing, crushing him with kisses, wrapping a leg around his waist...
The gel is warm from spending all day in Wilson's pocket, ready for this moment, ready to slip inside him on House's fingers. He takes this opportunity to explore, pressing up behind Wilson's balls with slick fingers while Wilson kisses him, the earth-bitter taste of his cock replaced with the sweet lushness of his mouth. Warmth and smooth muscles and just the right amount of pain as House pressed against him, into him, cocks rubbing together, passing the same hot, damp breath back and forth between parted lips.
He would have made it last, wanted to make it last, but Wilson was grabbing his wrist, pressing their foreheads together, staring at House with blown pupils - wordlessly begging for it.
“Christ.” He pulls back just enough to grab Wilson's shoulder, force him half onto his side, line himself up against Wilson's back. The sight of his arching spine sends House into an instant flashback of the last time - of any time, in another strange bed or in the middle of the day, watching Wilson massage the back of his neck with one hand in the collar of his lab coat and remembering the shape of each vertebrae, the way Wilson's skin feels against his mouth -
He smears a handful of lubricant over his cock and positions himself, one hand pressed to the mattress, forearm under Wilson's knee to hold the angle. He keeps his mouth clamped shut as he watches Wilson squirm in the low light, muttering supplications to the pillow, mouth open and eyes squeezed shut...House takes a breath and pushes firmly in -
It's always worth the wait.
Wilson leans back into him and lets out a sound of pure relief, moaning loud enough for both of them. House wills himself to go slow, even though he's shaking with the effort, fighting for air and silence, his breath too hot for his lungs. Of course, these efforts prove to be in vain when Wilson reaches back to grab his hip, presses back and urges him deeper, faster, “oh God.”
He drags his lips along Wilson's shoulders while he waits for the shaking to subside, feeling the vibrations of Wilson's voice against his chest, soft noises of pleasure and more than a little pain. Sometimes he wonders if Wilson wants the pain, needs it, wants to feel for days what he might not have for months.
House knows the feeling.
But he can't think past each second, buried in silk with Wilson's hips rocking against his, Wilson's hand holding them close. He thrusts in hard and hits just the right spot, making Wilson cry out and arch his back, tossing his head back onto House's shoulder. This is what he misses the most: Wilson moving with him, wanting him, letting himself lose control. He cries out with every thrust, a curse or House's name, not even bothering to restrain his volume, reaching up to grab the bedpost, wanting more.
His hand fumbles down for Wilson's cock, still wet with his own saliva. The reaction this earns him is something he'll burn into his brain, remember it on all those nights when he sits alone, not-thinking in his apartment.
“Oh, fuck,” Wilson all but shouts, and pushes his cock further into House's grip, working his hips furiously, kissing the only part of House's body he can reach. “Holy shit,” he says breathlessly into House's forearm, muffling his speech. “Oh, House, I missed - I miss - God, harder.”
Can't argue with that.
He groans and starts pushing Wilson onto all fours, rolling him to his stomach, holding onto his hips. The angle lets him push in deeper, rips a sound from his lungs, makes his vision swim and his pulse speed up. He figures that after Wilson's blurted little confession, he can get away with the low moans issuing from the back of his throat, pressed into Wilson's hair, hidden against the back of his neck. No point hiding how much he wants this, not with Wilson squirming underneath him, all four of his limbs clawing at the sheets. He gasps when House grabs the top edge of the mattress and pistons into him, hissing as the pace increases, bracing his forehead against the pillows. Heat, sweat, friction. Groans and the creaking of the well-practiced bed frame. Close his eyes, and House can pretend this isn't a farce, something he'll tell himself doesn't mean anything the second they're back across the state line.
He can forget that it's something he wants.
Wilson stiffens and chokes out House's name, adding a generous DNA sample to the invisible mosaic in the sheets.
He lies there for a long time after he comes, feeling Wilson's breathing slow, running the tips of his fingers through drying sweat. “Worth the drive?” he murmurs against Wilson's temple.
Wilson makes sleepy little noises of contentment as he gently rearranges their limbs, pulling House's chest against his, pressing their foreheads together, sliding his hands up House's back - the kind of touch that only comes easily in these unfamiliar rooms.
He pretends to fall asleep with Wilson's thick arms wrapped around him, and tries to believe this isn't the part he misses most.
“So I've been thinking,” he announces the next morning, propped up on his side and watching Wilson tie his shoelaces, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Are you thinking about brushing your hair, or auditioning for an 80's revival band?” he grins, reaches over and tousles House's hair even more.
Looking disgustingly happy.
“I was thinking - if we're going to drive a hundred miles every time you're in the mood, we could single-handedly deplete this country's oil supply in the next five years.”
Wilson laughs sheepishly and starts fiddling with his belt. “Very eco-conscious of you.”
“It's really sort of a waste,” he blurts out and watches Wilson's features fall almost imperceptibly, fading quickly to quiet acceptance.
“Oh,” Wilson says to his lap. “Right.”
That awkward air is back, that twinge in House's stomach that only comes around at the end of these trips. The specter of going home or homosexuality - or worse, a meaningful relationship - hanging between them.
“So the way I see it, there's only one solution,” he says, watching Wilson nod to himself in resignation.
House shrugs. “Just gonna have to start fucking at my place.”
Wilson's instantly stifled relief jerks a smile out from somewhere in House's chest. "Just your place?" he asks with raised eyebrows.
"Spent enough time in hotels." He tries not to panic as Wilson lies down next to him, fully clothed and in the middle of the day. "'Course, if you want to get really particular about it, it's kind of pointless for you to drive all the way across town just to eat noodles and get naked with me."
Wilson looks about as terrified and perplexed as House feels. "Are you saying you want me to move back in?"
"I'm just pointing out the technicalities." He rolls over to face the water-spotted ceiling. "What you do with this information is your business."
Wilson lies there silent for a length of time which is potentially insulting. Then - "I guess your way does make a certain kind of sense." His hand is warm and firm as it wraps slowly around House's forearm. "But I have to know - what brought this on all of a sudden?"
He thinks about all the other nights they've spent not-sleeping in out-of-town hotels, increasing dramatically in frequency every few months. He thinks about what he'll be going home to - from sort of/not-really sex to a sort of/not-really relationship, and all it took was ten years.
"Had to be Queens," he mumbles, and pulls Wilson against his chest.