Fic: A Good Scrubbing
Title: A Good Scrubbing
Characters: House/Wilson
Rating: NC-17
Words: 4,000
Summary: Wilson cleans, then things get dirty. There's somewhat of a plot, too.
Warnings: Domestic silliness. Questionable taste.
A/N: This is kind of a prequel to Foreign Tongues. No need to read that, though, due to absence of plot.
“House!” Wilson called from the kitchen. “Where are the cleaning supplies?”
House responded by putting his feet on the coffee table and turning the TV on.
Wilson appeared in the doorway. “Did you hear me? Where’s the cleaning stuff I asked you to get?”
House furrowed his brow as if deep in thought. “Oh. You mean the deluxe sponge set you wanted? Made an executive decision on that one.”
Wilson crossed his arms. “They’re not sponges.”
“Whatever,” House said, flipping past PBS quickly, in case a Ken Burns documentary or some other Wilson-y shit was on. “Just use good old-fashioned vinegar and water and elbow grease-like Nanna taught you.”
“She didn’t-” Wilson began, then regrouped. “No. Vinegar has no powers against whatever is replicating itself on your bathroom tile.”
House turned to look at Wilson, only to find that he was actually pouting over cleaning products. “You didn’t seem to mind face-planting right into those tiles the other night,” House reminded him.
Shower sex, they’d discovered, worked spectacularly well with House enthroned on the shower seat and Wilson doing all the work. When Wilson had first presented him with the geriatric-looking chair, House had been appalled: “Thanks,” he’d sneered, “but I prefer baths-and not feeling like I’m 80 years old.”
But then Wilson told him why he’d bought the chair, and House’s position on the matter quickly shifted.
Unfortunately, Wilson was in a much more boring “dirty shower” mode at the moment. “Well,” he said, “my close encounter with your grout made me realize how dire the situation is.”
“You looove to get all up in my grout,” House replied with a saucy head bob, hoping to turn up Wilson’s frustration dial. Because angry sex rivaled shower sex.
But Wilson remained annoyingly composed. “Yes. Well, if you want me all up in your grout again, it needs some maintenance.”
House feigned offense, before an actually offensive thought struck him. “Wait. You were seriously inspecting the grout while we were having sex?”
Wilson averted his eyes.
House watched him for a moment then shook his head. “No, no. There is no way you were thinking about mold and mildew when you were all, ‘Howwse, oh my god, more, mooore!”
He flapped his hands and rolled his eyes back on that last word.
“OK, you look like a demented seal,” Wilson informed him. “And no, I wasn’t noticing the grout at that particular moment. But really, that bathroom needs some help.”
House pulled a face-possibly because he was slightly miffed at having his cleanliness questioned. He might not blow-dry, but he was no slob.
Yet ever since Wilson had been staying over more and more, he’d been consistently finding little home improvement jobs. House usually tolerated it, even when the “improvement” was debatable: There was now a fucking tie rack in his closet, for instance.
“Y’know,” he said as Wilson sat down next to him, “climbing into a tub to scrub grout is not the most cripple-friendly endeavor.”
He was rewarded with just a dusting of pink across Wilson’s cheeks. “Well. Right, I know,” Wilson defended. “I said I’m going to do it. I just wanted you to grab the stuff while you were at the store…getting Cool Ranch Doritos, apparently.”
House nodded. “My fave.” Then he turned off the TV and angled toward Wilson, draping his arm over the back of the couch. “You know what else is my fave?”
Wilson kept looking at the blank TV screen, but House could see he was interested. Then Wilson turned to him with a coy little smile. “What?” he asked.
House hoisted his feet onto Wilson’s lap. “Foot massage,” he replied briskly. “If you’re not gonna clean tonight, you need to earn your keep somehow. If we had sex it would mostly benefit you.”
Wilson stared at the sweat-sock-clad feet before him, as House reclined fully and laid his head on the armrest. House waited for the eye-roll/sigh combo, which arrived a moment later.
And then, as usual, Wilson gave in-taking hold of a foot and starting to work both of his thumbs into the arch. Just the way House liked it.
House closed his eyes, not bothering to fight the smile he felt coming on.
*******
“Mr. Clean Magic Erasers,” Wilson announced dramatically, as he pulled a box from his eco-friendly canvas grocery bag.
House was again on the couch, not watching PBS. He looked at the box, then at Wilson. “What’s for dinner?”
Wilson’s eyebrows shot up. “I just walked through the door.”
“I know,” House said. “That’s why I asked about your future plans for feeding me. I didn’t say, ‘Where’s dinner?’”
Wilson shook his head. “My mistake. Anyway,” he went on, waving the Mr. Clean box, “this is what I wanted you to buy last night. For future reference.”
“So next time I’ll know what I’m refusing to buy for you?”
“Exactly.”
Wilson dropped Mr. Clean and the rest of his load on the couch so he could take off his suit jacket.
House grabbed the box, just to see what all the fuss was about. He looked at Mr. Clean, taking in the image of the smug-looking bald man with his arms crossed over his chest-strikingly Wilson-style. No wonder Wilson insisted on this shit.
Then House saw the price tag. “Twenty-one dollars for four fucking sponges!”
“They’re not just sponges,” Wilson corrected as he started toward the bedroom. “And calm down. You’d spend that on alcohol without blinking.”
“Tell me how that compares to sponges,” House demanded, watching Wilson disappear into the bedroom. No answer.
When Wilson returned a couple minutes later, he was barefoot and wearing old faded jeans and a blue t-shirt with a hole near the collar-a new addition to the mini-wardrobe he kept there, House noted.
“You’re awfully casual,” House observed, narrowing his eyes. “Are we eating something messy?” he added hopefully.
“Actually, yes,” Wilson said, grabbing the grocery bag and Mr. Clean. “You’re ordering pizza. I’m gonna tackle the bathroom.”
“At twenty-one dollars, those sponges should be self-propelled,” House bitched.
As much as he liked pizza, he liked it much more when Wilson cooked for him. Being tossed over for a night with Mr. Clean did not sit well.
“House, it is totally worth it,” Wilson insisted. “These things are amazing. They can get grease stains out of-”
“Can you spare me the Mr. Clean commercial? It’s like you’re gay for him or something.”
Wilson just peered at House for a moment. “Are you…jealous?”
“Of a gay cartoon genie?”
“Why do you think he’s-” Wilson stopped there, closing his eyes and holding his hands up. “I’m not having this conversation.” He turned and headed into the kitchen.
“Why do you have to do it tonight?” House called after him, not caring about the slight whine in his voice. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. You’ll have time to clean for hours before you make my dinner.”
“As appealing as that sounds,” Wilson replied from the kitchen, “we have plans tomorrow.”
When he did not elaborate, House assumed he was supposed to know what those plans were.
“What plans?” he asked warily when Wilson reappeared.
Wilson was able to put his hands on his hips even while holding Mr. Clean. “You really don’t remember?”
House made a “duh” face.
“We’re going apple-picking.”
House was sure he’d heard wrong. “Did you say apple-picking? Because there’s no way I’d agree to that.”
Wilson did his head-tilt thing. “Well, you did.”
“Was I sober?”
“Yes.”
Then it hit House. “Was I orgasmic, by chance?”
Wilson bit his lip and looked down. The bitch.
House wagged an index finger at him. “You know people can’t be held responsible for what they do mid- or post-orgasm.”
Wilson looked up and knit his eyebrows together. “What, it’s a statute?”
House crossed his arms. “Maybe.”
“We’re going,” Wilson pronounced. “And I’m cleaning the bathroom. And you’re ordering…whatever. Or hey, you could cook. You know how.”
“I know how to do a lot of things,” House said, pushing to his feet. “But there are precious few things I like to do.”
He limped toward Wilson. “I know what I’d like to do right now,” he said, lowering his voice for maximum seduction.
Wilson started to back away. “I’m not massaging your feet.”
“It doesn’t have to be my feet,” House said, grinning and following Wilson until he was backed against the hallway wall.
House put his hands on the wall, on either side of Wilson. “C’mon. Put Mr. Clean away,” he urged. “I’ve got Dr. House’s Magic Fingers.”
Wilson cringed. “That is so bad.”
He put a hand on House’s chest and gently pushed him away.
“I’ve got a date with a gay genie. Go take care of dinner.”
*******
“House, you will not believe how much better it looks in here already!” Wilson called from the bathroom.
“I’m shaking with anticipation!” House replied, around a mouthful of pizza.
“What?”
House rolled his eyes.
“Are you still eating?” Wilson called. “Come look at it.”
“I am not coming to look at grout.”
Wilson walked into the living room a moment later, his hair sticking up at gravity-defying angles and sweat stains on his t-shirt.
House scowled. “Quite a workout you and Mr. Clean are having.”
Wilson ran a hand through his hair. “Well, I had to really get in there and scrub. It is kind of a workout,” he said, with a breathy little laugh.
House paused mid-chew. He was suddenly consumed by an image of Wilson, on his knees and scrubbing hard-grunting every now and then, the muscles in his forearms working, his ass waggling in the air.
House swallowed his food. “You should show me how these Magic Erasers work.”
Wilson looked puzzled. “Um…OK. I’ve still got part of the shower to go. I was gonna take a break and eat, though.”
“Well, like you said, I’ve really gotta see this grout.”
Wilson eyed him suspiciously. “Uh-huh.”
He turned around slowly and didn’t see House’s smile as he led the way to the bathroom.
*******
“Yep, that’s something,” House admitted.
He had flipped down the toilet lid so he could sit and enjoy the show-namely, Wilson standing in the tub, reaching up to scrub around the higher tiles. His t-shirt was riding up enough for House to catch glimpses of his boxers above the waistband of his low-hanging jeans. All nice, but House had something more in mind.
“Can you clean the floor with those things?”
Wilson grunted as he struggled for another moment with an ornery area of grout. Then he turned around.
“Uh, sure. The floor needs it, too?”
House nodded solemnly. “Definitely this area here by the toilet.”
“Really?” Wilson stepped out of the tub then squatted next to House. “Oh, you’re right. It’s kind of nasty.” He looked up at House disapprovingly before setting to work.
House moved to sit on the edge of the tub, where he had a much better view of Wilson’s ass as it wagged a bit, in rhythm with his scrubbing. Still, it wasn’t quite enough.
“Oh, gross,” House said. “The floor right here by the tub, where the bath mat was.”
Wilson sighed heavily, not stopping his work. “Can it wait till I’m done here?”
“I can’t believe you didn’t notice this,” House challenged. “This will require a whole other sponge, I bet.”
As expected, Wilson stopped what he was doing and crawled over to inspect the floor by House’s feet. “Ugh,” he agreed, then began to scrub in earnest.
Now, in addition to Wilson’s wiggly booty, House could clearly see his upper back muscles working through his t-shirt…The mop of hair, becoming increasingly disheveled by humidity and perspiration…The sinewy lines of his forearm as he gripped the Magic Sponge…
Why is he gripping a fucking sponge when he could be gripping me?
Time for action, House decided.
He reached out and placed two fingertips, light as a feather, on the nape of Wilson’s neck, then started to trace a line down his spine. Wilson stilled instantly.
House smirked and continued his descent, to just below the waistband of Wilson’s exposed boxers, before running his fingertips back up again. “Y’know,” he said casually, “you’re quite the mess yourself, Dr. Clean…I think you need a thorough scrubbing.”
Wilson exhaled a short laugh, but maintained his position. “Um,” he said, a bit shakily. “Right now?”
House shrugged, even though Wilson’s head was down. “When there’s work to be done, I believe in getting right down to it.”
Wilson rolled off his hands and knees and sat back to look at House. His face was nicely flushed. “Right,” he said, with a little smirk.
House carefully slid down to sit on the floor, then spread his knees in invitation. Wilson accepted, crawling forward and cupping House’s face in both hands before kissing him. House didn’t even mind the Mr. Clean scent.
When Wilson pulled away, he smiled knowingly. “You ordered prosciutto for me,” he said.
House brushed it off. “I know how horny it makes you. You are incredibly weird, by the way.”
Wilson just leaned in again, this time shoving his tongue into House’s mouth a bit more insistently. He really liked prosciutto, House thought vaguely.
Wilson slipped a hand under House’s t-shirt until his fingernails grazed a nipple, and House couldn’t help moaning a little into the kiss. Wilson pulled away just enough to yank House’s t-shirt over his head, before moving back in to kiss along his jaw and down the side of his neck.
Wilson truly was a hard worker, House had to admit, even as his brain began to slowly shut down.
He still, however, had enough sense to know this position was less than ideal for both of them.
“Uh, maybe we should move this to the bedroom,” House managed to say, as Wilson mouthed along his jugular and lightly circled a fingernail around his nipple.
Wilson sat back a little and licked his lips. “’Kay,” he agreed, with a goofy little smile.
House still found it fascinating that one person could perfectly embody a sweater-vest-wearing 75-year-old one moment, and a hormonal 17-year-old the next.
Wilson hopped to his feet and held out a hand-which House actually took for once, in the name of speed.
As soon as Wilson got through the bedroom door he turned and pulled House into another rather frantic kiss. Household chores and well-chosen pizza toppings had apparently hit all of Wilson’s buttons. House made a mental note.
As they gradually backed toward the bed, House put a hand in Wilson’s hair and tilted his head to gain better access to his neck.
“You smell like bleach and oranges,” he mumbled into Wilson’s skin.
“Mmmm,” Wilson replied, before the backs of his legs hit the bed and they fell somewhat awkwardly onto it.
House wasted no time finding Wilson’s neck again. “I’m not complaining,” he clarified, grazing his lips over Wilson’s throat. “It works on you.”
He pulled on Wilson’s collar and began to suck along his collarbone.
“House,” Wilson groaned, in that sexually frustrated way that went straight to House’s groin.
Wilson then wriggled out from underneath him and stood up. “Lie back,” he ordered, stripping off his own t-shirt then grabbing the handy-dandy bottle of lube from the nightstand drawer.
“Well, aren’t you all business,” House snarked, partly to distract from the fact that he was obediently scooting back and propping himself against the headboard.
“I do get things done around here,” Wilson agreed. He then straddled House’s legs and undid House’s jeans, carefully pulling the zipper down over his very interested cock before working both jeans and boxers off.
“It’s like having free maid service,” House said, trying to keep his voice level as Wilson moved back up his body, lightly running his tongue along House’s inner thighs.
“I keep forgetting to pick you up one of those little French getups,” House went on, though breathing was becoming difficult. “It would really show off your cleavage-God!” He hissed as Wilson took him in hand.
“Oh,” Wilson smiled devilishly. “I forgot to warm the lube. Sorry.”
House was about to bitch, but Wilson’s left hand suddenly became quite distracting.
The way it was moving along House’s shaft in long, sure strokes; the way Wilson paused now and then to gently run his thumb over the slit. All with the perfect, exquisite amount of pressure-learned from numerous, patient practice sessions House had hosted in that very bed.
Wilson looked up at House then, with a small smile. Not a smirk, not an evil grin. Just a genuine smile. House felt an odd flutter in his chest, just before Wilson bent down and took him into his mouth. And then House thought he was seeing stars.
He cursed, grabbing Wilson’s hair with one hand and fisting the sheets with the other. Wilson responded by humming around his head and reaching to lightly stroke House’s balls.
“Fuck,” House hissed, digging his heels in the mattress and trying not to thrust his hips up. He’d hate to choke Wilson now.
House gasped at the sudden sensation of Wilson’s index finger gliding along his perineum toward his entrance, just as Wilson’s tongue did that blessed swirly thing right below his tip. This could be over embarrassingly soon, House realized-
And then the blissful stimulation was gone. “You know,” he heard Wilson say, “I just realized something.”
House’s eyes flew open. He looked down to see Wilson holding his cock in one hand and propping his own chin on the other.
“What the fuck are you doing?” House demanded.
“Thinking,” Wilson said innocently. “Last night. You said that when we have sex it mostly benefits me. Remember?”
House glared. “I will kill you.”
“But I was just wondering,” Wilson replied, feigning puzzlement. “Do you still feel that way?”
House used his elbows to sit up higher. “If you don’t get back to work down there, I’m going to throw you down and fuck the daylights out of you.”
“Oh no,” Wilson whispered, with a mock shudder. “Somebody save me.”
“Wilson,” House said in a low, dangerous voice. But he’d forgotten that Wilson loved his low, dangerous voice, so all he got in return was another self-satisfied smile.
“House,” Wilson cajoled, “just admit how much you love it when I take care of you. When I make your dinner, clean your apartment, balance your checkbook…when I suck you off.”
“OK,” House almost yelled. “I like those things. Especially that last one. So get to it.”
House lay back and gave his hips a good thrust. There was a pause, and House could actually feel Wilson smirking. But then his hot mouth was back to its rightful place, and House no longer cared.
He could admit that he loved having Wilson take care of him. The lecturing, he could live without. But the other stuff…The warm, nutritionally sound meals. The leftovers packed for him to take for lunch. The neatly folded laundry. He loved the regular sex, no doubt. He loved-
Wilson’s well-lubed index finger. And how it expertly curved to hit that sweet spot.
“Oh god, Wilson,” House groaned as he arched up. His hand found Wilson’s hair again, and he gripped as tightly as he dared. If that manipulative bitch even thought about stopping again…
But he didn’t. That perfect mouth kept working diligently as his finger found House’s prostate again and again, until House thought he might actually die. Until finally, he felt his whole body tremble violently before he threw his head back and came with a shout.
Some moments later, House was hazily aware of Wilson kissing a path up his body, House’s hand still in his hair. When Wilson’s lips found his, he opened his mouth to take in that taste-that mix of himself and the familiar but still indescribable flavor that was Wilson.
House ran his fingertips up and down Wilson’s sweat-dampened back as he continued to lay small kisses along House’s jaw, behind his ear, down his neck to his shoulder.
It was only when House’s roving hands touched denim that he fully returned to reality. “Why the hell are you still wearing clothes?”
Wilson lifted up a bit and gazed down at him with a dopey grin.
House squeezed his ass. “Off. Now.”
Wilson scrambled to his feet to free himself of his jeans. He’d barely stepped out of them before House yanked him back down.
Once Wilson was laid out before him, House grabbed the lube and made a show of warming it between his hands.
“The considerate lover takes his time to do this,” House lectured, taking note of how Wilson’s chest was already heaving with anticipation.
Lying on his left side, propped on some pillows, House took hold of Wilson’s cock in his right hand, then threaded his left into Wilson’s hair. He had really taken to grabbing Wilson by the locks, he realized.
“So,” House said casually, as he began stroking, long and slow, “I was thinking.”
Wilson’s eyes darted toward him. “House,” he said softly. “Please.”
The little bitch knew House was a sucker for his begging, quite literally. But House remained stoic.
“You sure come up with a lot of projects to do around here.” House gave Wilson’s cock a stronger tug. “I mean, you’re really…insinuating yourself in my home.”
Wilson bit his lip and turned on his puppy-dog eyes. The bastard.
Just to be nice, House gently ran his thumb over the head of Wilson’s cock, smiling a little when he saw Wilson’s toes curl.
“And I have to wonder why a guy would go to the trouble of scrubbing another guy’s grout…I don’t mean that metaphorically.”
House tightened his hold on Wilson’s hair before moving in to run his tongue around a nipple, then bite down gently. Wilson gasped and arched up. “House,” he whispered.
House pulled away. “You know what I think?” he asked, conversationally.
Wilson just pressed his lips together and shut his eyes. House leaned in close to his ear, stilling his hand at the base of Wilson’s cock. “I think you want to be here all the time. I think you want your entire tie collection consuming my closet.”
“Is,” Wilson breathed, “is that a metaphor?”
House paused. “Could be. Though I’m not sure what it would mean.”
He began to stroke Wilson again, a little faster and rougher now. Wilson arched up once more with a whimper. “House,” he rasped. “Please…I need…”
“What?”
“Um…more.”
“I know you do,” House said in a low voice. “You want to move in, don’t you?”
House let go of his hair, and Wilson began to toss his head side to side on the pillow. “Howwse,” he pleaded.
“Wilson,” House replied sweetly, “just admit that you’d love to move in and be my little housewife…Get it? House. Wife.”
Wilson growled. “Yes, I get it, you moron. It’s not exactly highbrow-”
“You want to move in.”
Wilson just bit his lip again. So House moved in close. “Admit it,” he whispered, watching Wilson’s face. Getting no reply, he began to chant softly, in time with his strokes, “Admit it, admit it, admit-”
“Yes!” Wilson cried out to the ceiling. “I want to move in. OK? Now get your mouth down there before I kill you.”
House was happy to oblige. As much as he loved to frustrate Wilson, to tease him, there was one thing he loved more: causing Wilson to come completely undone. To watch him thrash and moan words that no nice, upstanding oncologist should even know.
House used one arm to hold Wilson’s hips down as he moved his tongue up the underneath side of Wilson’s cock before engulfing him.
Wilson slapped a palm down on the mattress and unleashed a string of curses that could make a sailor blush. By the time House moved to mouth his balls, Wilson was babbling in some strange language. Possibly Swedish. House mentally catalogued that for future investigation.
Wilson was so worked up, it took only a couple moments of House teasing his entrance before he was coming hard, almost sobbing some combination of “god” and “House” to the ceiling.
House took a minute just to look at Wilson’s flushed skin, watch his chest rising and falling as his breathing began to settle.
Then slowly, House made his way back up the bed, reaching to the nightstand for his Vicodin then lying on his side next to Wilson. He put a hand on Wilson’s chest and felt him shaking under his palm.
Wilson just breathed for another minute or two, facing the ceiling with his eyes closed. When he finally spoke, he was hesitant. “So…what do you think?”
“I’m amazing,” House said. Wilson kept his eyes closed, but House saw a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Let me be specific,” Wilson said softly. “What do you think about…what we just said.”
“You said a lot, much of it unintelligible. Most of it dirty as hell.”
Wilson sighed. “About moving in.” He still wouldn’t look at House.
House felt his throat tighten. Every fiber of his being wanted to keep snarking. But he also wanted to tell the truth.
“I…Well, why do you want to?”
Wilson’s hint of a smile disappeared.
Shit. House spoke quickly. “I mean, your place is a lot bigger. It makes more sense.”
Wilson’s features softened, in what House recognized as relief. He turned to look at House.
“Well, you’ve been here a long time. I know you’re comfortable here.” Wilson hesitated before adding, “I am, too.”
His whole body stiffened then, like he was bracing for a verbal assault. But House decided he was just too tired to make fun of his bedmate. He opted instead to start slowly tracing small circles on Wilson’s chest.
“OK,” House said, off-handedly.
“OK, what?”
House rolled his eyes. “OK to what we were just talking about.”
Wilson looked at him. “Sooo, you want me to move in?”
“Nooo,” House corrected. “You want to move in and cater to my needs. I’m going to let you.”
Wilson kept his face impassive. “I see.”
“I always give you what you want, don’t I?”
House was surprised when Wilson slowly smiled and said, “Yeah. You do.”
House frowned just a little. That couldn’t possibly be true. And if it was, he was going to have to make some changes. Wilson might end up thinking he was in charge here.
Wilson reached to turn off the nightstand lamp, then settled back in, resting his head on House’s shoulder.
“What the hell are you doing?” House said to Wilson’s hair.
“I’m snuggling,” came the muffled reply. “Deal with it.”
“Jesus,” House grumbled, finding his hand back in Wilson’s hair again.
“Go to sleep,” Wilson told him. “We have to get up early for apple-picking.”
“Not gonna happen,” House declared, lightly massaging Wilson’s scalp. “And why early, anyway? You have to sneak up on the apples before dawn?”
“Nooo. Afternoon’s they have family hours. Lots of little kids around.”
House shuddered.
“Aaand,” Wilson continued, “I thought we could make our apple-picking more…R-rated.”
House stilled his hand. Was Wilson actually suggesting outdoor sex? House cleared his throat. “You mean…like some kind of forbidden-fruit thing?”
Wilson giggled dorkily.
House smiled-genuinely, since the room was dark. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Apple-picking, it is…You’ll be Eve, of course.”
“Naturally,” Wilson said through a yawn.
Within a couple minutes, Wilson’s breathing evened out, and House knew he was asleep. He never stayed conscious for long after sex.
House, on the other hand, was wide awake-probably because of the fluttery sensation in the pit of his stomach. Objectively, he knew it was that thing people called “nerves.” But House so rarely felt it himself, it always caught him a bit by surprise.
Wilson was moving in. OK.
It was more than OK, actually. It was…good.
Really, nothing would change, House told himself. He’d just be upping his dose of Wilson. That could lead to side effects, he realized; headaches were the most commonly reported adverse effect of a Wilson regimen.
But the risk/benefit ratio…seemed to fall in House’s favor.
He found himself massaging Wilson’s scalp again and relaxing a bit more into this unsolicited embrace. Wilson’s freakishly large head was too much trouble to move anyway. So House just closed his eyes and let things be.
--End
Characters: House/Wilson
Rating: NC-17
Words: 4,000
Summary: Wilson cleans, then things get dirty. There's somewhat of a plot, too.
Warnings: Domestic silliness. Questionable taste.
A/N: This is kind of a prequel to Foreign Tongues. No need to read that, though, due to absence of plot.
“House!” Wilson called from the kitchen. “Where are the cleaning supplies?”
House responded by putting his feet on the coffee table and turning the TV on.
Wilson appeared in the doorway. “Did you hear me? Where’s the cleaning stuff I asked you to get?”
House furrowed his brow as if deep in thought. “Oh. You mean the deluxe sponge set you wanted? Made an executive decision on that one.”
Wilson crossed his arms. “They’re not sponges.”
“Whatever,” House said, flipping past PBS quickly, in case a Ken Burns documentary or some other Wilson-y shit was on. “Just use good old-fashioned vinegar and water and elbow grease-like Nanna taught you.”
“She didn’t-” Wilson began, then regrouped. “No. Vinegar has no powers against whatever is replicating itself on your bathroom tile.”
House turned to look at Wilson, only to find that he was actually pouting over cleaning products. “You didn’t seem to mind face-planting right into those tiles the other night,” House reminded him.
Shower sex, they’d discovered, worked spectacularly well with House enthroned on the shower seat and Wilson doing all the work. When Wilson had first presented him with the geriatric-looking chair, House had been appalled: “Thanks,” he’d sneered, “but I prefer baths-and not feeling like I’m 80 years old.”
But then Wilson told him why he’d bought the chair, and House’s position on the matter quickly shifted.
Unfortunately, Wilson was in a much more boring “dirty shower” mode at the moment. “Well,” he said, “my close encounter with your grout made me realize how dire the situation is.”
“You looove to get all up in my grout,” House replied with a saucy head bob, hoping to turn up Wilson’s frustration dial. Because angry sex rivaled shower sex.
But Wilson remained annoyingly composed. “Yes. Well, if you want me all up in your grout again, it needs some maintenance.”
House feigned offense, before an actually offensive thought struck him. “Wait. You were seriously inspecting the grout while we were having sex?”
Wilson averted his eyes.
House watched him for a moment then shook his head. “No, no. There is no way you were thinking about mold and mildew when you were all, ‘Howwse, oh my god, more, mooore!”
He flapped his hands and rolled his eyes back on that last word.
“OK, you look like a demented seal,” Wilson informed him. “And no, I wasn’t noticing the grout at that particular moment. But really, that bathroom needs some help.”
House pulled a face-possibly because he was slightly miffed at having his cleanliness questioned. He might not blow-dry, but he was no slob.
Yet ever since Wilson had been staying over more and more, he’d been consistently finding little home improvement jobs. House usually tolerated it, even when the “improvement” was debatable: There was now a fucking tie rack in his closet, for instance.
“Y’know,” he said as Wilson sat down next to him, “climbing into a tub to scrub grout is not the most cripple-friendly endeavor.”
He was rewarded with just a dusting of pink across Wilson’s cheeks. “Well. Right, I know,” Wilson defended. “I said I’m going to do it. I just wanted you to grab the stuff while you were at the store…getting Cool Ranch Doritos, apparently.”
House nodded. “My fave.” Then he turned off the TV and angled toward Wilson, draping his arm over the back of the couch. “You know what else is my fave?”
Wilson kept looking at the blank TV screen, but House could see he was interested. Then Wilson turned to him with a coy little smile. “What?” he asked.
House hoisted his feet onto Wilson’s lap. “Foot massage,” he replied briskly. “If you’re not gonna clean tonight, you need to earn your keep somehow. If we had sex it would mostly benefit you.”
Wilson stared at the sweat-sock-clad feet before him, as House reclined fully and laid his head on the armrest. House waited for the eye-roll/sigh combo, which arrived a moment later.
And then, as usual, Wilson gave in-taking hold of a foot and starting to work both of his thumbs into the arch. Just the way House liked it.
House closed his eyes, not bothering to fight the smile he felt coming on.
*******
“Mr. Clean Magic Erasers,” Wilson announced dramatically, as he pulled a box from his eco-friendly canvas grocery bag.
House was again on the couch, not watching PBS. He looked at the box, then at Wilson. “What’s for dinner?”
Wilson’s eyebrows shot up. “I just walked through the door.”
“I know,” House said. “That’s why I asked about your future plans for feeding me. I didn’t say, ‘Where’s dinner?’”
Wilson shook his head. “My mistake. Anyway,” he went on, waving the Mr. Clean box, “this is what I wanted you to buy last night. For future reference.”
“So next time I’ll know what I’m refusing to buy for you?”
“Exactly.”
Wilson dropped Mr. Clean and the rest of his load on the couch so he could take off his suit jacket.
House grabbed the box, just to see what all the fuss was about. He looked at Mr. Clean, taking in the image of the smug-looking bald man with his arms crossed over his chest-strikingly Wilson-style. No wonder Wilson insisted on this shit.
Then House saw the price tag. “Twenty-one dollars for four fucking sponges!”
“They’re not just sponges,” Wilson corrected as he started toward the bedroom. “And calm down. You’d spend that on alcohol without blinking.”
“Tell me how that compares to sponges,” House demanded, watching Wilson disappear into the bedroom. No answer.
When Wilson returned a couple minutes later, he was barefoot and wearing old faded jeans and a blue t-shirt with a hole near the collar-a new addition to the mini-wardrobe he kept there, House noted.
“You’re awfully casual,” House observed, narrowing his eyes. “Are we eating something messy?” he added hopefully.
“Actually, yes,” Wilson said, grabbing the grocery bag and Mr. Clean. “You’re ordering pizza. I’m gonna tackle the bathroom.”
“At twenty-one dollars, those sponges should be self-propelled,” House bitched.
As much as he liked pizza, he liked it much more when Wilson cooked for him. Being tossed over for a night with Mr. Clean did not sit well.
“House, it is totally worth it,” Wilson insisted. “These things are amazing. They can get grease stains out of-”
“Can you spare me the Mr. Clean commercial? It’s like you’re gay for him or something.”
Wilson just peered at House for a moment. “Are you…jealous?”
“Of a gay cartoon genie?”
“Why do you think he’s-” Wilson stopped there, closing his eyes and holding his hands up. “I’m not having this conversation.” He turned and headed into the kitchen.
“Why do you have to do it tonight?” House called after him, not caring about the slight whine in his voice. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. You’ll have time to clean for hours before you make my dinner.”
“As appealing as that sounds,” Wilson replied from the kitchen, “we have plans tomorrow.”
When he did not elaborate, House assumed he was supposed to know what those plans were.
“What plans?” he asked warily when Wilson reappeared.
Wilson was able to put his hands on his hips even while holding Mr. Clean. “You really don’t remember?”
House made a “duh” face.
“We’re going apple-picking.”
House was sure he’d heard wrong. “Did you say apple-picking? Because there’s no way I’d agree to that.”
Wilson did his head-tilt thing. “Well, you did.”
“Was I sober?”
“Yes.”
Then it hit House. “Was I orgasmic, by chance?”
Wilson bit his lip and looked down. The bitch.
House wagged an index finger at him. “You know people can’t be held responsible for what they do mid- or post-orgasm.”
Wilson looked up and knit his eyebrows together. “What, it’s a statute?”
House crossed his arms. “Maybe.”
“We’re going,” Wilson pronounced. “And I’m cleaning the bathroom. And you’re ordering…whatever. Or hey, you could cook. You know how.”
“I know how to do a lot of things,” House said, pushing to his feet. “But there are precious few things I like to do.”
He limped toward Wilson. “I know what I’d like to do right now,” he said, lowering his voice for maximum seduction.
Wilson started to back away. “I’m not massaging your feet.”
“It doesn’t have to be my feet,” House said, grinning and following Wilson until he was backed against the hallway wall.
House put his hands on the wall, on either side of Wilson. “C’mon. Put Mr. Clean away,” he urged. “I’ve got Dr. House’s Magic Fingers.”
Wilson cringed. “That is so bad.”
He put a hand on House’s chest and gently pushed him away.
“I’ve got a date with a gay genie. Go take care of dinner.”
*******
“House, you will not believe how much better it looks in here already!” Wilson called from the bathroom.
“I’m shaking with anticipation!” House replied, around a mouthful of pizza.
“What?”
House rolled his eyes.
“Are you still eating?” Wilson called. “Come look at it.”
“I am not coming to look at grout.”
Wilson walked into the living room a moment later, his hair sticking up at gravity-defying angles and sweat stains on his t-shirt.
House scowled. “Quite a workout you and Mr. Clean are having.”
Wilson ran a hand through his hair. “Well, I had to really get in there and scrub. It is kind of a workout,” he said, with a breathy little laugh.
House paused mid-chew. He was suddenly consumed by an image of Wilson, on his knees and scrubbing hard-grunting every now and then, the muscles in his forearms working, his ass waggling in the air.
House swallowed his food. “You should show me how these Magic Erasers work.”
Wilson looked puzzled. “Um…OK. I’ve still got part of the shower to go. I was gonna take a break and eat, though.”
“Well, like you said, I’ve really gotta see this grout.”
Wilson eyed him suspiciously. “Uh-huh.”
He turned around slowly and didn’t see House’s smile as he led the way to the bathroom.
*******
“Yep, that’s something,” House admitted.
He had flipped down the toilet lid so he could sit and enjoy the show-namely, Wilson standing in the tub, reaching up to scrub around the higher tiles. His t-shirt was riding up enough for House to catch glimpses of his boxers above the waistband of his low-hanging jeans. All nice, but House had something more in mind.
“Can you clean the floor with those things?”
Wilson grunted as he struggled for another moment with an ornery area of grout. Then he turned around.
“Uh, sure. The floor needs it, too?”
House nodded solemnly. “Definitely this area here by the toilet.”
“Really?” Wilson stepped out of the tub then squatted next to House. “Oh, you’re right. It’s kind of nasty.” He looked up at House disapprovingly before setting to work.
House moved to sit on the edge of the tub, where he had a much better view of Wilson’s ass as it wagged a bit, in rhythm with his scrubbing. Still, it wasn’t quite enough.
“Oh, gross,” House said. “The floor right here by the tub, where the bath mat was.”
Wilson sighed heavily, not stopping his work. “Can it wait till I’m done here?”
“I can’t believe you didn’t notice this,” House challenged. “This will require a whole other sponge, I bet.”
As expected, Wilson stopped what he was doing and crawled over to inspect the floor by House’s feet. “Ugh,” he agreed, then began to scrub in earnest.
Now, in addition to Wilson’s wiggly booty, House could clearly see his upper back muscles working through his t-shirt…The mop of hair, becoming increasingly disheveled by humidity and perspiration…The sinewy lines of his forearm as he gripped the Magic Sponge…
Why is he gripping a fucking sponge when he could be gripping me?
Time for action, House decided.
He reached out and placed two fingertips, light as a feather, on the nape of Wilson’s neck, then started to trace a line down his spine. Wilson stilled instantly.
House smirked and continued his descent, to just below the waistband of Wilson’s exposed boxers, before running his fingertips back up again. “Y’know,” he said casually, “you’re quite the mess yourself, Dr. Clean…I think you need a thorough scrubbing.”
Wilson exhaled a short laugh, but maintained his position. “Um,” he said, a bit shakily. “Right now?”
House shrugged, even though Wilson’s head was down. “When there’s work to be done, I believe in getting right down to it.”
Wilson rolled off his hands and knees and sat back to look at House. His face was nicely flushed. “Right,” he said, with a little smirk.
House carefully slid down to sit on the floor, then spread his knees in invitation. Wilson accepted, crawling forward and cupping House’s face in both hands before kissing him. House didn’t even mind the Mr. Clean scent.
When Wilson pulled away, he smiled knowingly. “You ordered prosciutto for me,” he said.
House brushed it off. “I know how horny it makes you. You are incredibly weird, by the way.”
Wilson just leaned in again, this time shoving his tongue into House’s mouth a bit more insistently. He really liked prosciutto, House thought vaguely.
Wilson slipped a hand under House’s t-shirt until his fingernails grazed a nipple, and House couldn’t help moaning a little into the kiss. Wilson pulled away just enough to yank House’s t-shirt over his head, before moving back in to kiss along his jaw and down the side of his neck.
Wilson truly was a hard worker, House had to admit, even as his brain began to slowly shut down.
He still, however, had enough sense to know this position was less than ideal for both of them.
“Uh, maybe we should move this to the bedroom,” House managed to say, as Wilson mouthed along his jugular and lightly circled a fingernail around his nipple.
Wilson sat back a little and licked his lips. “’Kay,” he agreed, with a goofy little smile.
House still found it fascinating that one person could perfectly embody a sweater-vest-wearing 75-year-old one moment, and a hormonal 17-year-old the next.
Wilson hopped to his feet and held out a hand-which House actually took for once, in the name of speed.
As soon as Wilson got through the bedroom door he turned and pulled House into another rather frantic kiss. Household chores and well-chosen pizza toppings had apparently hit all of Wilson’s buttons. House made a mental note.
As they gradually backed toward the bed, House put a hand in Wilson’s hair and tilted his head to gain better access to his neck.
“You smell like bleach and oranges,” he mumbled into Wilson’s skin.
“Mmmm,” Wilson replied, before the backs of his legs hit the bed and they fell somewhat awkwardly onto it.
House wasted no time finding Wilson’s neck again. “I’m not complaining,” he clarified, grazing his lips over Wilson’s throat. “It works on you.”
He pulled on Wilson’s collar and began to suck along his collarbone.
“House,” Wilson groaned, in that sexually frustrated way that went straight to House’s groin.
Wilson then wriggled out from underneath him and stood up. “Lie back,” he ordered, stripping off his own t-shirt then grabbing the handy-dandy bottle of lube from the nightstand drawer.
“Well, aren’t you all business,” House snarked, partly to distract from the fact that he was obediently scooting back and propping himself against the headboard.
“I do get things done around here,” Wilson agreed. He then straddled House’s legs and undid House’s jeans, carefully pulling the zipper down over his very interested cock before working both jeans and boxers off.
“It’s like having free maid service,” House said, trying to keep his voice level as Wilson moved back up his body, lightly running his tongue along House’s inner thighs.
“I keep forgetting to pick you up one of those little French getups,” House went on, though breathing was becoming difficult. “It would really show off your cleavage-God!” He hissed as Wilson took him in hand.
“Oh,” Wilson smiled devilishly. “I forgot to warm the lube. Sorry.”
House was about to bitch, but Wilson’s left hand suddenly became quite distracting.
The way it was moving along House’s shaft in long, sure strokes; the way Wilson paused now and then to gently run his thumb over the slit. All with the perfect, exquisite amount of pressure-learned from numerous, patient practice sessions House had hosted in that very bed.
Wilson looked up at House then, with a small smile. Not a smirk, not an evil grin. Just a genuine smile. House felt an odd flutter in his chest, just before Wilson bent down and took him into his mouth. And then House thought he was seeing stars.
He cursed, grabbing Wilson’s hair with one hand and fisting the sheets with the other. Wilson responded by humming around his head and reaching to lightly stroke House’s balls.
“Fuck,” House hissed, digging his heels in the mattress and trying not to thrust his hips up. He’d hate to choke Wilson now.
House gasped at the sudden sensation of Wilson’s index finger gliding along his perineum toward his entrance, just as Wilson’s tongue did that blessed swirly thing right below his tip. This could be over embarrassingly soon, House realized-
And then the blissful stimulation was gone. “You know,” he heard Wilson say, “I just realized something.”
House’s eyes flew open. He looked down to see Wilson holding his cock in one hand and propping his own chin on the other.
“What the fuck are you doing?” House demanded.
“Thinking,” Wilson said innocently. “Last night. You said that when we have sex it mostly benefits me. Remember?”
House glared. “I will kill you.”
“But I was just wondering,” Wilson replied, feigning puzzlement. “Do you still feel that way?”
House used his elbows to sit up higher. “If you don’t get back to work down there, I’m going to throw you down and fuck the daylights out of you.”
“Oh no,” Wilson whispered, with a mock shudder. “Somebody save me.”
“Wilson,” House said in a low, dangerous voice. But he’d forgotten that Wilson loved his low, dangerous voice, so all he got in return was another self-satisfied smile.
“House,” Wilson cajoled, “just admit how much you love it when I take care of you. When I make your dinner, clean your apartment, balance your checkbook…when I suck you off.”
“OK,” House almost yelled. “I like those things. Especially that last one. So get to it.”
House lay back and gave his hips a good thrust. There was a pause, and House could actually feel Wilson smirking. But then his hot mouth was back to its rightful place, and House no longer cared.
He could admit that he loved having Wilson take care of him. The lecturing, he could live without. But the other stuff…The warm, nutritionally sound meals. The leftovers packed for him to take for lunch. The neatly folded laundry. He loved the regular sex, no doubt. He loved-
Wilson’s well-lubed index finger. And how it expertly curved to hit that sweet spot.
“Oh god, Wilson,” House groaned as he arched up. His hand found Wilson’s hair again, and he gripped as tightly as he dared. If that manipulative bitch even thought about stopping again…
But he didn’t. That perfect mouth kept working diligently as his finger found House’s prostate again and again, until House thought he might actually die. Until finally, he felt his whole body tremble violently before he threw his head back and came with a shout.
Some moments later, House was hazily aware of Wilson kissing a path up his body, House’s hand still in his hair. When Wilson’s lips found his, he opened his mouth to take in that taste-that mix of himself and the familiar but still indescribable flavor that was Wilson.
House ran his fingertips up and down Wilson’s sweat-dampened back as he continued to lay small kisses along House’s jaw, behind his ear, down his neck to his shoulder.
It was only when House’s roving hands touched denim that he fully returned to reality. “Why the hell are you still wearing clothes?”
Wilson lifted up a bit and gazed down at him with a dopey grin.
House squeezed his ass. “Off. Now.”
Wilson scrambled to his feet to free himself of his jeans. He’d barely stepped out of them before House yanked him back down.
Once Wilson was laid out before him, House grabbed the lube and made a show of warming it between his hands.
“The considerate lover takes his time to do this,” House lectured, taking note of how Wilson’s chest was already heaving with anticipation.
Lying on his left side, propped on some pillows, House took hold of Wilson’s cock in his right hand, then threaded his left into Wilson’s hair. He had really taken to grabbing Wilson by the locks, he realized.
“So,” House said casually, as he began stroking, long and slow, “I was thinking.”
Wilson’s eyes darted toward him. “House,” he said softly. “Please.”
The little bitch knew House was a sucker for his begging, quite literally. But House remained stoic.
“You sure come up with a lot of projects to do around here.” House gave Wilson’s cock a stronger tug. “I mean, you’re really…insinuating yourself in my home.”
Wilson bit his lip and turned on his puppy-dog eyes. The bastard.
Just to be nice, House gently ran his thumb over the head of Wilson’s cock, smiling a little when he saw Wilson’s toes curl.
“And I have to wonder why a guy would go to the trouble of scrubbing another guy’s grout…I don’t mean that metaphorically.”
House tightened his hold on Wilson’s hair before moving in to run his tongue around a nipple, then bite down gently. Wilson gasped and arched up. “House,” he whispered.
House pulled away. “You know what I think?” he asked, conversationally.
Wilson just pressed his lips together and shut his eyes. House leaned in close to his ear, stilling his hand at the base of Wilson’s cock. “I think you want to be here all the time. I think you want your entire tie collection consuming my closet.”
“Is,” Wilson breathed, “is that a metaphor?”
House paused. “Could be. Though I’m not sure what it would mean.”
He began to stroke Wilson again, a little faster and rougher now. Wilson arched up once more with a whimper. “House,” he rasped. “Please…I need…”
“What?”
“Um…more.”
“I know you do,” House said in a low voice. “You want to move in, don’t you?”
House let go of his hair, and Wilson began to toss his head side to side on the pillow. “Howwse,” he pleaded.
“Wilson,” House replied sweetly, “just admit that you’d love to move in and be my little housewife…Get it? House. Wife.”
Wilson growled. “Yes, I get it, you moron. It’s not exactly highbrow-”
“You want to move in.”
Wilson just bit his lip again. So House moved in close. “Admit it,” he whispered, watching Wilson’s face. Getting no reply, he began to chant softly, in time with his strokes, “Admit it, admit it, admit-”
“Yes!” Wilson cried out to the ceiling. “I want to move in. OK? Now get your mouth down there before I kill you.”
House was happy to oblige. As much as he loved to frustrate Wilson, to tease him, there was one thing he loved more: causing Wilson to come completely undone. To watch him thrash and moan words that no nice, upstanding oncologist should even know.
House used one arm to hold Wilson’s hips down as he moved his tongue up the underneath side of Wilson’s cock before engulfing him.
Wilson slapped a palm down on the mattress and unleashed a string of curses that could make a sailor blush. By the time House moved to mouth his balls, Wilson was babbling in some strange language. Possibly Swedish. House mentally catalogued that for future investigation.
Wilson was so worked up, it took only a couple moments of House teasing his entrance before he was coming hard, almost sobbing some combination of “god” and “House” to the ceiling.
House took a minute just to look at Wilson’s flushed skin, watch his chest rising and falling as his breathing began to settle.
Then slowly, House made his way back up the bed, reaching to the nightstand for his Vicodin then lying on his side next to Wilson. He put a hand on Wilson’s chest and felt him shaking under his palm.
Wilson just breathed for another minute or two, facing the ceiling with his eyes closed. When he finally spoke, he was hesitant. “So…what do you think?”
“I’m amazing,” House said. Wilson kept his eyes closed, but House saw a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Let me be specific,” Wilson said softly. “What do you think about…what we just said.”
“You said a lot, much of it unintelligible. Most of it dirty as hell.”
Wilson sighed. “About moving in.” He still wouldn’t look at House.
House felt his throat tighten. Every fiber of his being wanted to keep snarking. But he also wanted to tell the truth.
“I…Well, why do you want to?”
Wilson’s hint of a smile disappeared.
Shit. House spoke quickly. “I mean, your place is a lot bigger. It makes more sense.”
Wilson’s features softened, in what House recognized as relief. He turned to look at House.
“Well, you’ve been here a long time. I know you’re comfortable here.” Wilson hesitated before adding, “I am, too.”
His whole body stiffened then, like he was bracing for a verbal assault. But House decided he was just too tired to make fun of his bedmate. He opted instead to start slowly tracing small circles on Wilson’s chest.
“OK,” House said, off-handedly.
“OK, what?”
House rolled his eyes. “OK to what we were just talking about.”
Wilson looked at him. “Sooo, you want me to move in?”
“Nooo,” House corrected. “You want to move in and cater to my needs. I’m going to let you.”
Wilson kept his face impassive. “I see.”
“I always give you what you want, don’t I?”
House was surprised when Wilson slowly smiled and said, “Yeah. You do.”
House frowned just a little. That couldn’t possibly be true. And if it was, he was going to have to make some changes. Wilson might end up thinking he was in charge here.
Wilson reached to turn off the nightstand lamp, then settled back in, resting his head on House’s shoulder.
“What the hell are you doing?” House said to Wilson’s hair.
“I’m snuggling,” came the muffled reply. “Deal with it.”
“Jesus,” House grumbled, finding his hand back in Wilson’s hair again.
“Go to sleep,” Wilson told him. “We have to get up early for apple-picking.”
“Not gonna happen,” House declared, lightly massaging Wilson’s scalp. “And why early, anyway? You have to sneak up on the apples before dawn?”
“Nooo. Afternoon’s they have family hours. Lots of little kids around.”
House shuddered.
“Aaand,” Wilson continued, “I thought we could make our apple-picking more…R-rated.”
House stilled his hand. Was Wilson actually suggesting outdoor sex? House cleared his throat. “You mean…like some kind of forbidden-fruit thing?”
Wilson giggled dorkily.
House smiled-genuinely, since the room was dark. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Apple-picking, it is…You’ll be Eve, of course.”
“Naturally,” Wilson said through a yawn.
Within a couple minutes, Wilson’s breathing evened out, and House knew he was asleep. He never stayed conscious for long after sex.
House, on the other hand, was wide awake-probably because of the fluttery sensation in the pit of his stomach. Objectively, he knew it was that thing people called “nerves.” But House so rarely felt it himself, it always caught him a bit by surprise.
Wilson was moving in. OK.
It was more than OK, actually. It was…good.
Really, nothing would change, House told himself. He’d just be upping his dose of Wilson. That could lead to side effects, he realized; headaches were the most commonly reported adverse effect of a Wilson regimen.
But the risk/benefit ratio…seemed to fall in House’s favor.
He found himself massaging Wilson’s scalp again and relaxing a bit more into this unsolicited embrace. Wilson’s freakishly large head was too much trouble to move anyway. So House just closed his eyes and let things be.
--End