Fic: Joking
Title: Joking
Author: Nemesis (Nems)
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None
Summary: Written for the get_house_laid prompt 020. House/Wilson -- House surprise kisses/jumps/molests Wilson in the hospital, who is very surprised, House tries to pass it off as a joke -- take it from there.
Disclaimer: Okay. Has House fucked Wilson, graphically, on the show yet? No. Has House kissed Wilson yet on the show? No. Are they a happy couple? No. Therefore, really not mine.
A/N: Number one. I have no betas. Mainly because my net hates me and I want to post this before it dies. It's a very sad state of being, but there you have it.
Number two. Yeah, this is 12 days late on the get_house_laid deadline, but... I claimed 8 prompts and posted 7 on time, was sick with the flue for five days and in London for five and then my muse left me.
Number three. I give this fic, as usual, to my lovely, wonderful, patient, kindly wife, Cris, with lots of love <3
Wilson’s walking along the hallway, a patient chart in his hand. He’s smiling slightly. The cancer is in remission. The kind of thing that happened far too infrequently.
And suddenly, he’s being pushed against the wall, the patient chart is falling from his hands, forgotten - no matter how good the news - and a mouth is covering his. Slick, smooth lips - different, somehow, from what Wilson is used to - and stubble scratching his chin and cheeks. There’s something hard and wooden prodding him in the side - a cane, he realizes. House, then.
Wilson parts his lips in shock more than lust, and a tongue teases his bottom lip, sliding repeatedly along his teeth. The tongue slips further into his mouth, chasing away the last, lingering tastes of coffee and lunch. Wilson’s tongue joins the fray, darting into House’s mouth, tasting coffee and french fries and something bitter. Vicodin, his mind supplies for him, but the stubble against his face and the amazingly skillful tongue in his mouth is quickly banishing most of his higher functions.
There’s a hand on the back of his head and Wilson’s hands have long gone up to clutch at House’s biceps.
House pulls away and smirks down at him.
Wilson stands there, dazed, unsure what this was or what to say or even where to look.
The cane is gone from his side and House limps off, out towards the elevators. There’s a backpack on his back and his cap is on.
Wilson stares after him.
The patient chart is pressed into his hand, and Cameron’s worried eyes search his face. “Dr. Wilson? Are you okay?”
“Hm? Yes. Fine, thank you. Would you do me a favor?”
“Yes, of course,” Cameron says, confused and puzzled, clearly hoping for answers, but Wilson can’t give her one. He has no idea what the hell just happened either.
“This file. Will you please put it on my desk? I need to go… oh.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Never mind. Everything I need is in my office.” He sighs and strides off to his office, gnawing impatiently on the inside of his cheek. He throws the patient file on his desk, grabs his coat and keys, and dashes out of the door.
House has a huge head start. Wilson’s not even sure if House is going home or to a bar or meeting someone somewhere.
He drives to House’s apartment anyway, thinking trying there is better than nothing.
He stands outside the door, trying to figure out what to do. Does he really want to know what that was all about?
He has to. He can’t just… he can’t forget those lips on his, that tongue teasing his, the stubble scraping against his cheek. And, of course, the stirrings of arousal. Finally, he knocks tentatively.
“Not home!” House shouts out, and Wilson bites back a laugh.
“House? It’s me!”
“Everyone says that!” House yells back. “Everyone’s ‘me.’ Funny, I thought I was ‘me’.”
“House! Open the door!”
“Wilson, you have a key!”
Oh, right, he does have a key. He fumbles around on his key ring, looking for House’s key, and finally opens the door. House is half-lying, half-sitting on the couch, his back propped up on the arm of the couch but his legs stretched out, and he’s eating dinner. Spaghetti.
“There’s some more in the pot if you’re hungry,” House offers, finding the remote and turning the volume down.
“You cooked?”
“It has happened before. Cooking, so hard. Morons can do it. All it takes is reading, they always say.”
“Any sauce to go with it?”
House nods. “Cheese too. Or processed plastic they’re calling cheese. Eat at your own risk. Should be on the bag somewhere, that.”
Wilson says nothing, just goes into the kitchen and fixes himself a plate of pasta. He goes back into the living room and sits down in the recliner. “We need to talk.”
“You’re a man, Jimmy. Learn there are phrases which should never exit your mouth, unless you’re recounting what a woman told you,” House tsks. He mutes the TV anyway, knowing he’s not going to win this point.
“You kissed me today in the middle of the hallway!”
House shifts, slightly uncomfortable. Okay, the middle of the hallway part, that was probably not the best of ideas.
“Er… yeah. It was a joke.”
“Kissing me is a joke?” Wilson hisses, frustrated and annoyed by House’s lack of… You know, that really shouldn’t be that surprising. After all, House was always egotistical and unconventional. Not uncaring, just unconventionally caring. “Do you know… do you have any idea… no, of course you don’t!”
House rolls his eyes but says nothing. It’s for Wilson to arrive at on his own. House is used to pushing Wilson to do things, used to influencing Wilson, but Wilson better damn well be sure about this without House’s input.
“I can’t think about anything but that,” Wilson mumbles, putting down his plate of pasta. He’s not really hungry anyway. The strange lump in his throat and the odd fluttering in his stomach are more than enough to stave off his hunger. He hopes House hasn’t heard, but he knows by the speculative gleam that it is a forlorn hope.
House shoves more spaghetti in his mouth (if this has the outcome he’s hoping for, he’s really going to need the energy, he thinks absently), and pretends that he’s completely clueless. It doesn’t exactly work, not on as devious a face as his, but his lack of response is enough to frustrate Wilson further.
No matter what the outcome, a frustrated Wilson is definitely a sexy Wilson, and House feels himself starting to harden.
Damn.
Wilson is muttering angrily to himself. Really, couldn’t he have gotten over all of that before coming here? House is annoyed. He didn’t exactly expect Wilson to fall into his outstretched arms - or arm, as it were - but this… House twirls spaghetti around his fork and pops it in his mouth.
He reaches for the remote and unmutes the TV. If Wilson’s not talking, he might as well watch.
“House! ” Wilson snaps. “I thought we were talking.”
House mutes the TV again with a frustrated sigh. “That’s what I thought too, but here I am waiting and you’re not saying anything, which usually means we’re not talking. At least, we’re not discussing anything. We’re still… did you realize that you can’t say anything simply in English because of the connotations or second meanings of so many simple phrases? Like, we’re not talking. I mean, earlier, we weren’t talking - physical truth. Yet, if I say it like that, it sounds like we aren’t talking because of a fight…”
“House, stop trying to change the subject. And don’t babble. You only babble if you’re nervous about something.”
“Which clearly should tell you something,” House points out. He tries twirling more spaghetti and sighs in frustration.
“I hate your games.”
House shrugs. He’s not going to do anything. It rests on Wilson. He’s made his move, anyway.
“Your jokes are…” Wilson trails off.
House puts down his plate of spaghetti and waits.
Wilson stands up and strides over to House. He kneels next to House, grabs the back of his neck, and pulls him into a nearly brutal kiss. By the time they’re done reassuring themselves that the spaghetti with tomato sauce and cheese was definitely the same for both of them, House’s eyes are glazed over.
“Just a joke,” Wilson spits.
House smiles slowly. “And would fucking me also be just a joke?” he asks. “Or do you think that would move into the more serious realm?”
“Only if you took it seriously.”
House doesn’t answer, not in words. He grabs his cane off the couch’s arm and pushes Wilson back enough to give himself room to stand. He stands up and wraps his fingers around Wilson’s wrist, tugging him towards the bedroom.
Wilson sits down on the edge of House’s bed. House leans heavily on his cane, both hands resting on it. Nothing is said, and the tension between them grows. They stare at each other, trying to figure out what the other is thinking.
Finally House rolls his eyes and says, “Okay, if you’re going to have a heterosexual freakout, you better do it in the next three minutes.”
It breaks the tension. Wilson laughs and undoes his shirt, slipping it off and throwing it on the floor. “Nah, I had that back in med school.”
“Excellent.” House tosses his cane aside and grabs the hem of his shirt, pulling it off in one swift move.
“Your heterosexual freakout?” Wilson removes his shoes and socks quickly. Yeesh. He’s always hated shoes and socks when it came to undressing for sex.
“Happened in fifth grade. Always had to be ahead of the curve,” House smirks. He toes out of his sneakers, hobbling awkwardly when it came to his right foot.
Wilson smiles at the thought and removes his belt. House’s breath catches. He loves that sound. The soft whoosh of a belt being dragged out of its loops. It’s a major fucking turn-on. He hasn’t heard that sound in far too long.
Wilson shoves his pants and briefs down, sliding out of them quickly and sitting back on House’s bed properly.
House unbuttons and unzips his jeans quickly, shoving them down his legs. He doesn’t think about the scar. Stacy had always looked at the scar mournfully. Complete turn-off, House thinks bitterly. Hookers can’t stop staring at it. He tips them on their tactfulness by now. The regulars, they’ve learned.
Wilson, though, just glances at his legs and shifts his gaze to House’s cock, growing, tenting his boxers. Wilson knows already. Seen it before. Nothing new.
House pushes his boxers down and steps out of the entangled mess. He takes two giant, limping, incredibly awkward steps over to Wilson, whose expression doesn’t change a bit. He looks like every single partner of his has had half a right thigh missing and can’t walk straight.
House is overwhelmed by gratitude.
And he’s even more sure now that Wilson’s the right choice.
He lowers himself next to Wilson and kisses him again.
“Still joking?” they murmur at the same time and smile at it.
“All the time,” House jokes before kissing him again. It’s not going to last long. It’s probably not going to make their lists of top ten sexual encounters. It’s not going to be long, slow love-making with nips and butterfly kisses and murmured “I love yous” and growled obscenities. Hell, it’s not even going to be hot, impulsive sex with them screaming loud enough to wake the 99-year-old nearly deaf woman House has as a neighbor.
But it’s still House wrapping his calloused right hand around Wilson’s cock and stroking. It’s still Wilson arching up into House and biting his neck, laving the bit of skin stuck in between his stubborn, white teeth with his tongue. It’s House shifting until his erection lines up with Wilson’s, changing his grip until he’s encircled both of their cocks. It’s Wilson’s left hand joining House’s right, squeezing and stroking and rubbing.
It’s them pressing against each other, skin on skin, lips on lips, lips on skin, dicks straining against each other. It’s them panting and moaning and gasping and coming. Neither know who came first. Who cares? They’re sticky with sweat and come, panting and desperately catching their breath.
Wilson knows clean-up’s going to be him, probably every time. He doesn’t glance at House’s leg before shifting.
House is already easing himself up and limping heavily towards the bathroom, his cane in his (moderately) cleaner left hand. Wilson hears the unmistakable sound of water running. House returns moments later with a wetted hand towel (and Wilson spares a moment of shock for that alone) in his left hand, limping on his cane, and cleans Wilson off, if not tenderly, then at least affectionately.
He tosses the towel back towards the bathroom and gets back in bed. “Was lying,” House admits.
Wilson’s breath catches. No. Oh no. He can’t believe he fell for this stupid trick, this…
“Wasn’t joking,” House murmurs sleepily. “Not this time.”
And Wilson smiles in the dark.
Just this once, he thinks he’ll let House get away with lying.
-- End.
Author: Nemesis (Nems)
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None
Summary: Written for the get_house_laid prompt 020. House/Wilson -- House surprise kisses/jumps/molests Wilson in the hospital, who is very surprised, House tries to pass it off as a joke -- take it from there.
Disclaimer: Okay. Has House fucked Wilson, graphically, on the show yet? No. Has House kissed Wilson yet on the show? No. Are they a happy couple? No. Therefore, really not mine.
A/N: Number one. I have no betas. Mainly because my net hates me and I want to post this before it dies. It's a very sad state of being, but there you have it.
Number two. Yeah, this is 12 days late on the get_house_laid deadline, but... I claimed 8 prompts and posted 7 on time, was sick with the flue for five days and in London for five and then my muse left me.
Number three. I give this fic, as usual, to my lovely, wonderful, patient, kindly wife, Cris, with lots of love <3
Wilson’s walking along the hallway, a patient chart in his hand. He’s smiling slightly. The cancer is in remission. The kind of thing that happened far too infrequently.
And suddenly, he’s being pushed against the wall, the patient chart is falling from his hands, forgotten - no matter how good the news - and a mouth is covering his. Slick, smooth lips - different, somehow, from what Wilson is used to - and stubble scratching his chin and cheeks. There’s something hard and wooden prodding him in the side - a cane, he realizes. House, then.
Wilson parts his lips in shock more than lust, and a tongue teases his bottom lip, sliding repeatedly along his teeth. The tongue slips further into his mouth, chasing away the last, lingering tastes of coffee and lunch. Wilson’s tongue joins the fray, darting into House’s mouth, tasting coffee and french fries and something bitter. Vicodin, his mind supplies for him, but the stubble against his face and the amazingly skillful tongue in his mouth is quickly banishing most of his higher functions.
There’s a hand on the back of his head and Wilson’s hands have long gone up to clutch at House’s biceps.
House pulls away and smirks down at him.
Wilson stands there, dazed, unsure what this was or what to say or even where to look.
The cane is gone from his side and House limps off, out towards the elevators. There’s a backpack on his back and his cap is on.
Wilson stares after him.
The patient chart is pressed into his hand, and Cameron’s worried eyes search his face. “Dr. Wilson? Are you okay?”
“Hm? Yes. Fine, thank you. Would you do me a favor?”
“Yes, of course,” Cameron says, confused and puzzled, clearly hoping for answers, but Wilson can’t give her one. He has no idea what the hell just happened either.
“This file. Will you please put it on my desk? I need to go… oh.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Never mind. Everything I need is in my office.” He sighs and strides off to his office, gnawing impatiently on the inside of his cheek. He throws the patient file on his desk, grabs his coat and keys, and dashes out of the door.
House has a huge head start. Wilson’s not even sure if House is going home or to a bar or meeting someone somewhere.
He drives to House’s apartment anyway, thinking trying there is better than nothing.
He stands outside the door, trying to figure out what to do. Does he really want to know what that was all about?
He has to. He can’t just… he can’t forget those lips on his, that tongue teasing his, the stubble scraping against his cheek. And, of course, the stirrings of arousal. Finally, he knocks tentatively.
“Not home!” House shouts out, and Wilson bites back a laugh.
“House? It’s me!”
“Everyone says that!” House yells back. “Everyone’s ‘me.’ Funny, I thought I was ‘me’.”
“House! Open the door!”
“Wilson, you have a key!”
Oh, right, he does have a key. He fumbles around on his key ring, looking for House’s key, and finally opens the door. House is half-lying, half-sitting on the couch, his back propped up on the arm of the couch but his legs stretched out, and he’s eating dinner. Spaghetti.
“There’s some more in the pot if you’re hungry,” House offers, finding the remote and turning the volume down.
“You cooked?”
“It has happened before. Cooking, so hard. Morons can do it. All it takes is reading, they always say.”
“Any sauce to go with it?”
House nods. “Cheese too. Or processed plastic they’re calling cheese. Eat at your own risk. Should be on the bag somewhere, that.”
Wilson says nothing, just goes into the kitchen and fixes himself a plate of pasta. He goes back into the living room and sits down in the recliner. “We need to talk.”
“You’re a man, Jimmy. Learn there are phrases which should never exit your mouth, unless you’re recounting what a woman told you,” House tsks. He mutes the TV anyway, knowing he’s not going to win this point.
“You kissed me today in the middle of the hallway!”
House shifts, slightly uncomfortable. Okay, the middle of the hallway part, that was probably not the best of ideas.
“Er… yeah. It was a joke.”
“Kissing me is a joke?” Wilson hisses, frustrated and annoyed by House’s lack of… You know, that really shouldn’t be that surprising. After all, House was always egotistical and unconventional. Not uncaring, just unconventionally caring. “Do you know… do you have any idea… no, of course you don’t!”
House rolls his eyes but says nothing. It’s for Wilson to arrive at on his own. House is used to pushing Wilson to do things, used to influencing Wilson, but Wilson better damn well be sure about this without House’s input.
“I can’t think about anything but that,” Wilson mumbles, putting down his plate of pasta. He’s not really hungry anyway. The strange lump in his throat and the odd fluttering in his stomach are more than enough to stave off his hunger. He hopes House hasn’t heard, but he knows by the speculative gleam that it is a forlorn hope.
House shoves more spaghetti in his mouth (if this has the outcome he’s hoping for, he’s really going to need the energy, he thinks absently), and pretends that he’s completely clueless. It doesn’t exactly work, not on as devious a face as his, but his lack of response is enough to frustrate Wilson further.
No matter what the outcome, a frustrated Wilson is definitely a sexy Wilson, and House feels himself starting to harden.
Damn.
Wilson is muttering angrily to himself. Really, couldn’t he have gotten over all of that before coming here? House is annoyed. He didn’t exactly expect Wilson to fall into his outstretched arms - or arm, as it were - but this… House twirls spaghetti around his fork and pops it in his mouth.
He reaches for the remote and unmutes the TV. If Wilson’s not talking, he might as well watch.
“House! ” Wilson snaps. “I thought we were talking.”
House mutes the TV again with a frustrated sigh. “That’s what I thought too, but here I am waiting and you’re not saying anything, which usually means we’re not talking. At least, we’re not discussing anything. We’re still… did you realize that you can’t say anything simply in English because of the connotations or second meanings of so many simple phrases? Like, we’re not talking. I mean, earlier, we weren’t talking - physical truth. Yet, if I say it like that, it sounds like we aren’t talking because of a fight…”
“House, stop trying to change the subject. And don’t babble. You only babble if you’re nervous about something.”
“Which clearly should tell you something,” House points out. He tries twirling more spaghetti and sighs in frustration.
“I hate your games.”
House shrugs. He’s not going to do anything. It rests on Wilson. He’s made his move, anyway.
“Your jokes are…” Wilson trails off.
House puts down his plate of spaghetti and waits.
Wilson stands up and strides over to House. He kneels next to House, grabs the back of his neck, and pulls him into a nearly brutal kiss. By the time they’re done reassuring themselves that the spaghetti with tomato sauce and cheese was definitely the same for both of them, House’s eyes are glazed over.
“Just a joke,” Wilson spits.
House smiles slowly. “And would fucking me also be just a joke?” he asks. “Or do you think that would move into the more serious realm?”
“Only if you took it seriously.”
House doesn’t answer, not in words. He grabs his cane off the couch’s arm and pushes Wilson back enough to give himself room to stand. He stands up and wraps his fingers around Wilson’s wrist, tugging him towards the bedroom.
Wilson sits down on the edge of House’s bed. House leans heavily on his cane, both hands resting on it. Nothing is said, and the tension between them grows. They stare at each other, trying to figure out what the other is thinking.
Finally House rolls his eyes and says, “Okay, if you’re going to have a heterosexual freakout, you better do it in the next three minutes.”
It breaks the tension. Wilson laughs and undoes his shirt, slipping it off and throwing it on the floor. “Nah, I had that back in med school.”
“Excellent.” House tosses his cane aside and grabs the hem of his shirt, pulling it off in one swift move.
“Your heterosexual freakout?” Wilson removes his shoes and socks quickly. Yeesh. He’s always hated shoes and socks when it came to undressing for sex.
“Happened in fifth grade. Always had to be ahead of the curve,” House smirks. He toes out of his sneakers, hobbling awkwardly when it came to his right foot.
Wilson smiles at the thought and removes his belt. House’s breath catches. He loves that sound. The soft whoosh of a belt being dragged out of its loops. It’s a major fucking turn-on. He hasn’t heard that sound in far too long.
Wilson shoves his pants and briefs down, sliding out of them quickly and sitting back on House’s bed properly.
House unbuttons and unzips his jeans quickly, shoving them down his legs. He doesn’t think about the scar. Stacy had always looked at the scar mournfully. Complete turn-off, House thinks bitterly. Hookers can’t stop staring at it. He tips them on their tactfulness by now. The regulars, they’ve learned.
Wilson, though, just glances at his legs and shifts his gaze to House’s cock, growing, tenting his boxers. Wilson knows already. Seen it before. Nothing new.
House pushes his boxers down and steps out of the entangled mess. He takes two giant, limping, incredibly awkward steps over to Wilson, whose expression doesn’t change a bit. He looks like every single partner of his has had half a right thigh missing and can’t walk straight.
House is overwhelmed by gratitude.
And he’s even more sure now that Wilson’s the right choice.
He lowers himself next to Wilson and kisses him again.
“Still joking?” they murmur at the same time and smile at it.
“All the time,” House jokes before kissing him again. It’s not going to last long. It’s probably not going to make their lists of top ten sexual encounters. It’s not going to be long, slow love-making with nips and butterfly kisses and murmured “I love yous” and growled obscenities. Hell, it’s not even going to be hot, impulsive sex with them screaming loud enough to wake the 99-year-old nearly deaf woman House has as a neighbor.
But it’s still House wrapping his calloused right hand around Wilson’s cock and stroking. It’s still Wilson arching up into House and biting his neck, laving the bit of skin stuck in between his stubborn, white teeth with his tongue. It’s House shifting until his erection lines up with Wilson’s, changing his grip until he’s encircled both of their cocks. It’s Wilson’s left hand joining House’s right, squeezing and stroking and rubbing.
It’s them pressing against each other, skin on skin, lips on lips, lips on skin, dicks straining against each other. It’s them panting and moaning and gasping and coming. Neither know who came first. Who cares? They’re sticky with sweat and come, panting and desperately catching their breath.
Wilson knows clean-up’s going to be him, probably every time. He doesn’t glance at House’s leg before shifting.
House is already easing himself up and limping heavily towards the bathroom, his cane in his (moderately) cleaner left hand. Wilson hears the unmistakable sound of water running. House returns moments later with a wetted hand towel (and Wilson spares a moment of shock for that alone) in his left hand, limping on his cane, and cleans Wilson off, if not tenderly, then at least affectionately.
He tosses the towel back towards the bathroom and gets back in bed. “Was lying,” House admits.
Wilson’s breath catches. No. Oh no. He can’t believe he fell for this stupid trick, this…
“Wasn’t joking,” House murmurs sleepily. “Not this time.”
And Wilson smiles in the dark.
Just this once, he thinks he’ll let House get away with lying.
-- End.