House/Wilson Fic: Feed a Fever
Title: Feed a Fever
Author:
third_owl , with an epilogue by
nightdog_barks
Characters: House and Wilson
Rating: NSFW or OH HAI THIS IS PORN
Warnings: Nope, other than the above NSFW
Length: ~1,600 words
"Next time you want to play Super-Wilson Saves the Day," House griped, "leave me out of it." He kept his feet on the coffee table, his eyes on Game of Thrones, and continued drinking his beer, because he wasn't going to elaborate. If they were lucky, his ridiculous, impossible theory would be wrong. The urge he felt would fade as it often did when he ignored it long enough, and Wilson would never have to know.
But if nothing changed soon, he was going to need a shower -- a nice, long, private shower -- and then ... what? Nothing, he hoped. Maybe that would make it go away.
It was eight hours since they'd witnessed the accident, eight hours since Wilson, not content to merely call 911 and let them do their jobs, had pulled over, leapt out of the nice safe Volvo, and gone forth to render aid. House, unwilling to sit in the car and be bored and have nobody to bitch to, had followed.
They'd found the driver dazed, still belted in, a compound fracture to the left arm, a probable broken right wrist, and his pants open, everything hanging out. The evidence of why he'd crashed was spattered on his clothes and on his skin. "At least you wrecked erect," House remarked. "You utter moron."
"Yes, yes, he's an idiot," Wilson said. "You check for head trauma, I'll talk to dispatch."
It had taken just ten minutes for the bus to arrive, the EMTs to take over, and the two of them to leave the scene.
Wilson squirmed in his seat, again, and refused to look at House. Instead, he attempted to cross his legs, and when that failed, picked up his TV Guide -- what kind of dweeb still buys TV Guide? -- and pretended to read the listings, with the pages falling over his lap.
A soft breeze moved the curtains and carried through the room, bringing Wilson's scent along. Wilson's cuffs and collar were undone, sleeves rolled up, tie gone. His hair shone in the lamplight. It was soft and House wanted to touch it, and then touch more than that.
"Why," he demanded, "are you still in that stupid dress shirt?"
Wilson failed to answer, but he did stop pretending to read. "House ..." he began, and the hoarseness in his tone made House want to grab that ridiculous magazine for himself, to hide the effect. "House ... I ... I think I'd better go home."
"I think you'd better go to bed." On some remote level, House was aware that his phone was ringing. His ears were ringing, too; he could feel his skin flush; he knew something was wrong, something he'd been thinking of just a few seconds ago. Right, right, the wreck. The guy was carrying something, had to be. Somewhere in the back of House's brain was the idea of a hospital, a diagnosis, something to make sense of this, but that thought was slipping away into the rhythm of Wilson's breathing and the curve of his mouth. "Go to bed," he heard himself say. "With me."
"Thirsty," was the first thing Wilson said to him, waking from their fitful, fevered sleep after they'd done, House figured, about half the things he'd ever imagined doing with Wilson, plus a few he'd never thought of, and then passed out on one another on the couch.
There was something he was supposed to remember about all this, but he couldn't. He was thirsty, too, and sweaty, and his skin was tingling, and he had to pee. "C'mon," he said. "Get up."
"You gotta go first," Wilson said, and finally House's addled brain worked out which of them was lying on top of the other. Up until that moment it had mostly been replaying what they'd done. He ran a hand down Wilson's side and noticed that they were both entirely naked, and he could reach Wilson's chest with his mouth, so he did, and that sound Wilson made, oh. He liked that sound.
His lips really were parched, though. He forced himself to untangle and get up, as Wilson tried to hold him there. A soft, hot shape poked House in the hip and he did his best to resist pressing into it.
"You'll die of dehydration," House said, his mind clearing a bit more. "Can't let that happen. Ruin our fun. And you need to take a leak."
Wilson groaned, and it was almost enough to drag House back.
The TV was still on. A bright red ribbon across the bottom of the screen carried a scrolling message, something House only half read. Storm warning, he thought. Didn't care. They weren't going anywhere for a while.
Somewhere in their barefoot shuffling back and forth to the bathroom and the kitchen, House recalled that they probably had a virus, some new thing that might or might not kill them, and they ought to call the hospital and the, uh ... CDC. That was it. They should definitely call the CDC.
Wilson stepped beside him, set his empty drinking glass on the counter, and took House by the wrist. "I don't know what's wrong with us," he said. "But I need a shower. Now."
House discovered he did not give a single shit about viruses, death, or the Center for Whatever. It was all receding anyway as he let Wilson lead him out of the kitchen.
A bottle of hair conditioner, left by some long-gone girlfriend, turned out to be just the thing for lubrication when giving hand-jobs in the shower.
House pinned Wilson to the wall, let the hot water spray against his back while they kissed and stroked and jerked one another, slowly, more slowly than anything they'd done on the sofa. For a few hazy seconds, House wondered whether it, whatever it was, was wearing off, and he hoped it was, and hoped it wasn't, and then Wilson reached around and slipped one fingertip inside him.
House forgot to wonder anymore.
"You know we have a ... virus, or something," Wilson said. "Right?"
They were waking up again, this time in House's bed. House's memory was clearing but his skin was still hot, the prickling sensation still traveling up and down his spine and then radiating outward, everywhere.
"There's no known virus that does this." Somewhere else in the apartment, he could hear his phone ringing again. "But I don't see how it could be anything else." He lay quietly, waiting for the next wave of lust to wash over him, slightly disappointed that the strongest sensation was not insane desire, or even his aching leg -- shockingly quiet for once -- but his rumbling stomach. How long had it been since they'd eaten? He didn't know.
"Let's order something. Athena's Palace delivers. Pay online, have 'em ring the bell and leave it at the door. Clean, no risk of contagion."
"I'll get my laptop," Wilson said. "House, we have to figure out what to do about this."
"Funny. I thought we already did."
It was either the best gyros and moussaka he'd ever had, House thought, or else it was just the circumstances, but either way, he was finally content.
And still mostly naked, hanging out in boxer shorts and drinking more beer, because he felt too hot for much else. Hotter than he'd been a minute ago, in fact. He should call in sick for tomorrow, if tomorrow was a work day. He didn't know anymore.
He'd have done it right then except he was sort of busy watching Wilson, whose fingers got slopped with tzatziki sauce, which he was licking off. The heat pooled in House's face, in his hands, in his groin. He knew where this was going, at least for himself, but what about --
"Oh, God. House." Wilson set down his empty plate and looked up, flushed bright pink across his cheeks. "It's not over. I thought it was over."
"Seems it just needed a snack." House swallowed the last of his beer, got up rather ... stiffly, and held out his hand. "Come on," he said. "Let's go get dessert."
Epilogue
The plague from outer space ... for that's what it had been, a wildly improbable real-life case of sex pollen and not some form of mass hysteria ... had finally burned itself out.
"Yes," the scientists on TV said, "the so-called Kooky Monkey Puppy Fever epidemic has abated." The scientists on TV always said this part looking as though they'd tasted something bad, but it was what the wisdom of the Internet had named the contagion so what could they do? There was no swimming against the tide. At this point the scientists on TV would clear their collective throats. "There are no incidences of spontaneous mass love-ins occurring anywhere." And then they looked sad.
House could sympathize. He didn't feel exactly sad, but he did feel as if something was missing from his life.
He tried biking more.
He took up go again, and played in the park with guys trying to hustle a buck.
He drank more.
He stopped drinking.
He drank again, sensibly this time.
He found himself outside Wilson's office door, his palms sweating, an indescribable itch at the base of his spine.
The door opened.
"House," Wilson said.
"Wilson," House said. "I miss it."
"I thought you'd never say so," Wilson said. He pulled House into his office, then into a kiss.
House's palms stopped sweating. The indescribable itch disappeared.
They lived happily ever after, and loved every fucking minute of it.
Author:
third_owl , with an epilogue by
nightdog_barks
Characters: House and Wilson
Rating: NSFW or OH HAI THIS IS PORN
Warnings: Nope, other than the above NSFW
Length: ~1,600 words
"Next time you want to play Super-Wilson Saves the Day," House griped, "leave me out of it." He kept his feet on the coffee table, his eyes on Game of Thrones, and continued drinking his beer, because he wasn't going to elaborate. If they were lucky, his ridiculous, impossible theory would be wrong. The urge he felt would fade as it often did when he ignored it long enough, and Wilson would never have to know.
But if nothing changed soon, he was going to need a shower -- a nice, long, private shower -- and then ... what? Nothing, he hoped. Maybe that would make it go away.
It was eight hours since they'd witnessed the accident, eight hours since Wilson, not content to merely call 911 and let them do their jobs, had pulled over, leapt out of the nice safe Volvo, and gone forth to render aid. House, unwilling to sit in the car and be bored and have nobody to bitch to, had followed.
They'd found the driver dazed, still belted in, a compound fracture to the left arm, a probable broken right wrist, and his pants open, everything hanging out. The evidence of why he'd crashed was spattered on his clothes and on his skin. "At least you wrecked erect," House remarked. "You utter moron."
"Yes, yes, he's an idiot," Wilson said. "You check for head trauma, I'll talk to dispatch."
It had taken just ten minutes for the bus to arrive, the EMTs to take over, and the two of them to leave the scene.
Wilson squirmed in his seat, again, and refused to look at House. Instead, he attempted to cross his legs, and when that failed, picked up his TV Guide -- what kind of dweeb still buys TV Guide? -- and pretended to read the listings, with the pages falling over his lap.
A soft breeze moved the curtains and carried through the room, bringing Wilson's scent along. Wilson's cuffs and collar were undone, sleeves rolled up, tie gone. His hair shone in the lamplight. It was soft and House wanted to touch it, and then touch more than that.
"Why," he demanded, "are you still in that stupid dress shirt?"
Wilson failed to answer, but he did stop pretending to read. "House ..." he began, and the hoarseness in his tone made House want to grab that ridiculous magazine for himself, to hide the effect. "House ... I ... I think I'd better go home."
"I think you'd better go to bed." On some remote level, House was aware that his phone was ringing. His ears were ringing, too; he could feel his skin flush; he knew something was wrong, something he'd been thinking of just a few seconds ago. Right, right, the wreck. The guy was carrying something, had to be. Somewhere in the back of House's brain was the idea of a hospital, a diagnosis, something to make sense of this, but that thought was slipping away into the rhythm of Wilson's breathing and the curve of his mouth. "Go to bed," he heard himself say. "With me."
"Thirsty," was the first thing Wilson said to him, waking from their fitful, fevered sleep after they'd done, House figured, about half the things he'd ever imagined doing with Wilson, plus a few he'd never thought of, and then passed out on one another on the couch.
There was something he was supposed to remember about all this, but he couldn't. He was thirsty, too, and sweaty, and his skin was tingling, and he had to pee. "C'mon," he said. "Get up."
"You gotta go first," Wilson said, and finally House's addled brain worked out which of them was lying on top of the other. Up until that moment it had mostly been replaying what they'd done. He ran a hand down Wilson's side and noticed that they were both entirely naked, and he could reach Wilson's chest with his mouth, so he did, and that sound Wilson made, oh. He liked that sound.
His lips really were parched, though. He forced himself to untangle and get up, as Wilson tried to hold him there. A soft, hot shape poked House in the hip and he did his best to resist pressing into it.
"You'll die of dehydration," House said, his mind clearing a bit more. "Can't let that happen. Ruin our fun. And you need to take a leak."
Wilson groaned, and it was almost enough to drag House back.
The TV was still on. A bright red ribbon across the bottom of the screen carried a scrolling message, something House only half read. Storm warning, he thought. Didn't care. They weren't going anywhere for a while.
Somewhere in their barefoot shuffling back and forth to the bathroom and the kitchen, House recalled that they probably had a virus, some new thing that might or might not kill them, and they ought to call the hospital and the, uh ... CDC. That was it. They should definitely call the CDC.
Wilson stepped beside him, set his empty drinking glass on the counter, and took House by the wrist. "I don't know what's wrong with us," he said. "But I need a shower. Now."
House discovered he did not give a single shit about viruses, death, or the Center for Whatever. It was all receding anyway as he let Wilson lead him out of the kitchen.
A bottle of hair conditioner, left by some long-gone girlfriend, turned out to be just the thing for lubrication when giving hand-jobs in the shower.
House pinned Wilson to the wall, let the hot water spray against his back while they kissed and stroked and jerked one another, slowly, more slowly than anything they'd done on the sofa. For a few hazy seconds, House wondered whether it, whatever it was, was wearing off, and he hoped it was, and hoped it wasn't, and then Wilson reached around and slipped one fingertip inside him.
House forgot to wonder anymore.
"You know we have a ... virus, or something," Wilson said. "Right?"
They were waking up again, this time in House's bed. House's memory was clearing but his skin was still hot, the prickling sensation still traveling up and down his spine and then radiating outward, everywhere.
"There's no known virus that does this." Somewhere else in the apartment, he could hear his phone ringing again. "But I don't see how it could be anything else." He lay quietly, waiting for the next wave of lust to wash over him, slightly disappointed that the strongest sensation was not insane desire, or even his aching leg -- shockingly quiet for once -- but his rumbling stomach. How long had it been since they'd eaten? He didn't know.
"Let's order something. Athena's Palace delivers. Pay online, have 'em ring the bell and leave it at the door. Clean, no risk of contagion."
"I'll get my laptop," Wilson said. "House, we have to figure out what to do about this."
"Funny. I thought we already did."
It was either the best gyros and moussaka he'd ever had, House thought, or else it was just the circumstances, but either way, he was finally content.
And still mostly naked, hanging out in boxer shorts and drinking more beer, because he felt too hot for much else. Hotter than he'd been a minute ago, in fact. He should call in sick for tomorrow, if tomorrow was a work day. He didn't know anymore.
He'd have done it right then except he was sort of busy watching Wilson, whose fingers got slopped with tzatziki sauce, which he was licking off. The heat pooled in House's face, in his hands, in his groin. He knew where this was going, at least for himself, but what about --
"Oh, God. House." Wilson set down his empty plate and looked up, flushed bright pink across his cheeks. "It's not over. I thought it was over."
"Seems it just needed a snack." House swallowed the last of his beer, got up rather ... stiffly, and held out his hand. "Come on," he said. "Let's go get dessert."
Epilogue
The plague from outer space ... for that's what it had been, a wildly improbable real-life case of sex pollen and not some form of mass hysteria ... had finally burned itself out.
"Yes," the scientists on TV said, "the so-called Kooky Monkey Puppy Fever epidemic has abated." The scientists on TV always said this part looking as though they'd tasted something bad, but it was what the wisdom of the Internet had named the contagion so what could they do? There was no swimming against the tide. At this point the scientists on TV would clear their collective throats. "There are no incidences of spontaneous mass love-ins occurring anywhere." And then they looked sad.
House could sympathize. He didn't feel exactly sad, but he did feel as if something was missing from his life.
He tried biking more.
He took up go again, and played in the park with guys trying to hustle a buck.
He drank more.
He stopped drinking.
He drank again, sensibly this time.
He found himself outside Wilson's office door, his palms sweating, an indescribable itch at the base of his spine.
The door opened.
"House," Wilson said.
"Wilson," House said. "I miss it."
"I thought you'd never say so," Wilson said. He pulled House into his office, then into a kiss.
House's palms stopped sweating. The indescribable itch disappeared.
They lived happily ever after, and loved every fucking minute of it.