saturday night special
title: saturday night special
author: phinnia
pairing: house/wilson
rating: nc-17 (whee for smut)
disclaimer: a wandering minstrel i, a thing of shreds and patches. i own nothing.
warnings/spoilers: nah.
author's note: thank you to my first readers for assuring me that the first part of this was good enough to continue, to arhh for the inspiration as to how I could continue it, and most of all to magie_05 for betaing above and beyond the call of duty, including pointing out my continuity errors and assuring me that it was not too long and not allowing me to be neurotic over it.
It would have been easier to deal with, House reflected, if they had been drunk.
Even if one of them had been drunk. Wilson drunk would make the most sense, because he was supposedly the sensible one with his Volvo and his library of ties and his meticulously planned dayplanner where everything was siphoned into fifteen-minute slots. He'd often wondered - when he could safely wonder about these things, which is to say when they were well and truly within the realm of the academic - if Wilson scheduled jacking off in the same way as he did everything else, lettered in black finepoint sharpie next to 'buy razor blades' and 'sort recycling'.
House would have volunteered to be the drunk one, if he'd known he was going to end up in this ridiculous state of half-between uncertainty, this overblown late-presenting teenage angst. He was tempted to go to the local geek hangout and see if he could get his hands on something, a time machine made out of three disassembled playstations and some duct tape or maybe a goddamn TARDIS just so he could go back in time and get plastered or even punch himself in the testicles, sympathetic pain and paradoxes be damned.
The problem was that they had both been terrifyingly sober. Tired definitely, lonely (he'd never actually say it, but under the cold light of logic and reason he was forced to silently admit it) and maybe desperate (that was all Wilson) but even those particular emotions weren't strong enough to force the issue.
It was just - an ordinary Wednesday night. They'd had pizza, they'd watched some stupid movie that censors had stripped clean of anything even close to objectionable, they'd had beer (the last two from a twelve-pack he'd bought the previous Sunday, so contamination was out) and somewhere between the hero's girlfriend freaking out and the second car chase Wilson had reached over and stuck his tongue in House's mouth; and instead of punching Wilson in the testicles, House kissed back, and then Wilson kissed harder, and then hands got involved and zippers and at least one belt hit the floor in the commotion and then he got too distracted to pay much attention to the order of things.
Thursday he had a case and clinic duty and Cuddy was bitching about some report he couldn't give a good goddamn about, all of which amounted to being so fucking busy he barely had time to shake off after a piss, and Wilson had that little wrinkle in his forehead that only happened after the third pointless administrative meeting since breakfast, so he'd had no time to think about it, and that was fine.
Friday things started to get weird.
Not that Wilson hanging around was anything particularly new, so there was no real reason why he should feel weird about it, or why he should feel like he wanted to say something (what, he had no idea), and Wilson was doing even more of that lip-biting thing he always did before he said anything serious, but that was pretty normal, or so he thought.
What wasn't normal was midafternoon when Wilson called him on the premise of a consult and as soon as the door closed behind him he was flattened against it and then molested; and it wasn't really normal that he was just as into it as Wilson was, his fingers shaking fumbling over zippers and tripping past buttons in a frantic attempt to get hands around smooth, hard flesh.
And okay, afterward Thirteen had noticed his fly was open, and Foreman was giving him more funny looks than usual, but that didn't mean a damn thing. Right?
Right.
Fast forward to now, Saturday night; playing piano and trying to figure out if he wanted this, wanted to bring it up, wanted to risk anything or everything to talk about this (and oh god, how far was he gone if he wanted to talk about this), or maybe just see how much it would cost to get a passport under an assumed name and live the rest of his days in a place with rum drinks and black-market vicodin.
He was leaning toward the last one when the lock rattled.
His hands stilled over the keys.
*
He'd walked around the block four times, streams of warm breath trailing through the cold clear night, before he worked up the courage to get the key out of his pocket; and he'd stared in the entranceway for ten minutes trying to talk himself into opening the door.
God. He was such an idiot.
This was impossible - this whole thing was impossible. Except for the fact that it felt so damn good. For the fact that he couldn't keep it out of his thoughts, out of his dreams, and his hands off of House (or himself). Jesus. The water bill was going to be impossible because of all the showers and he'd already jerked off more than he usually dared to at work - which really meant more than his previously comfortable zero, but this - this was -
Different.
The piano had stopped; House's hands were in midair. His own hand was still on the doorknob. The whole moment seemed misshapen, stretched; like a wool sweater that's gone through the wash.
Then it shattered. He exhaled a breath he'd forgot he was holding; House's hands slid to another chord.
"Hey." He held out the chips and six-pack he'd bought for reasons unknown (social lubricant? peace offering? sexual lubricant? he still wasn't sure)
"Hey."
"You ... there a game on?"
House was silent and still for another of those long moments, and Wilson had just opened up his mouth to speak when the piano lid shut and House turned to look at him for the first time since he'd come in. "Sure."
*
They eventually both moved to the sofa, carefully not-touching but near-touching, inches apart. The silence was thick enough to choke.
At some point he's going to want to talk about this. I've got to say something.
House doesn't trust words. He only trusts actions. I've got to do something.
Wilson shot to his feet. "I'm kind of hungry. You want something? Thought I'd order us a pizza. You know. Goes with the ... beer?"
"Sure." House coughed. "I - already ordered some." I was hoping you'd show up. I probably would have even called you, brainless sap that I apparently am; I needed to see you tonight. "Should be here soon. I'll get it this time."
"You don't have to, I don't mind." Wilson began to pace behind the sofa. His usual nervous fidgeting had broken from its bonds, blossoming into a desperate need to move, to find some kind of brainless activity before the tension in the room overflowed.
"I said I'll get it."
"Y-you sure?"
"Yes." House cleared his throat again. "Wilson. I-"
The words died in his throat as Wilson's hands fell to his shoulders, kneading, trying to smooth the knots out of his neck. Stubbornly, he half-turned. "You don't need to do that, you know."
Wilson's reply was barely audible. "I know. I want to."
Apparently this was some kind of sign-countersign model House didn't know he was familiar with, because they started kissing at that point; and then House moved sideways on the sofa and Wilson climbed over the back of it and tried to do it all without breaking contact between lips and fumbling hands but he landed on House's leg and ended up on the floor flat on his ass; House was swearing in at least two languages Wilson wasn't familiar with and Wilson was pretty sure he had a black eye from the coffee table.
Then the doorbell rang,
*
"You okay?"
"You've asked that twelve times in twenty minutes. I'm fine." Awkward pause. "You ... want an ice pack or something?"
"Um. sure. I'll get it." Another awkward pause. "You want one?"
"Ice doesn't help."
"Right."
Wilson vanished into the kitchen. House escaped to the bathroom and tried to figure out what the hell he was supposed to say now. Obviously they needed to talk about something - like how the fuck this happened and why now and why Wilson wanted him anyway and feelings and all that crap - Wilson was never happy unless he was analyzing the hell out of something - but he wasn't good at this talking shit, never mind initiating it. The fact that Wilson wasn't trying to initiate it was actually starting to spook him.
Wilson was fidgeting around the kitchen, making sure there was something to put on his black eye, washing dishes to kill time and worrying about what House was going to do. Knowing House (one of the things Wilson was good at) he was undoubtedly worried about being used, and Wilson knew damn well that talking was something that House was allergic to, like sulfa drugs and ragweed - he would have to find some way of working with that. At some point House was going to do something, and he wished the other shoe would drop.
He thought about it and paced the kitchen.
He wanted House to feel wanted and needed; wanted him to know that he was okay with their new relationship; wanted him to know that they were still friends as well as lovers, He'd initially thought the massage would work and maybe it would have if he hadn't failed so spectacularly at not noticing the intoxicating smell that House had - sweat and shampoo and Ivory soap and overtones of something entirely .
He sighed and poked around in the freezer to find something for his eye.
Oh, who was he kidding? There was no way he could touch House and stay distant; not when he knew the unexpected softness of that skin, the gasp and shudder, the soft fuzzy trail that led from his navel down to the slender length of cock -
"What the fuck are you doing?"
"Um. I'm, uh, holding a frozen spoon on my eye, why? Bonnie used to do it when her eyes were puffy. And you don't have any cucumbers. For my eyes. For the swelling. You know."
"No. I actually don't."
There was a long and awkward pause during which neither of them looked at each other. Then Wilson broke the silence by dropping the spoon into the sink. "Look, why don't we ... you know ... play X-box or som-"
"No." House took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "We are going to talk about this sex thing."
"What the hell is wrong with you? You hate talking!" Wilson stalked further out of the kitchen, backing House into a corner.
"You love it! Wrong with me, what the hell is wrong with you? You think I like talking about this? This is your job. I don't want to be you!"
"I'm trying to make you feel valued and less like a piece of meat, you fucking jackass!"
"Well, stop that!"
They stared at each other for a long moment; then House grabbed Wilson by the hair and kissed him; Wilson reached forward and grabbed House by the belt, dragging him down the hall toward the bedroom. It was really a minor miracle that neither of them sustained any more injuries, considering neither of them were paying attention.
"I ... I hate you sometimes." House muttered in between kisses, blindly unbuttoning Wilson's shirt. "You make me fucking stupid. Every time I - unf - every time I see you I can't - forget the way you sound ... I want to slam you on to th...the fu-fucking conference table and fuck you so hard the thing fucking breaks- I think K-kutner caught me s-staring at your ass in differential and -" With one final, frustrated tug the remaining buttons popped off, spraying across the room.
Wilson groaned, trying to tear House's pants off without breaking his lips away. "God, will you shut up and let me treat you like a piece of meat again?" He pushed House back on the bed, jerking bluejeans down over his ass, nipping at the point of a jutting bone. His eyes devoured over the landscape his hands had already travelled - across broad chest and shoulders, down smooth abdomen and the length of that beautiful cock that was hard and silky and fit perfectly into his hand with the purpling head swelling over the top. House gasped, a silent, shocked inhalation, tossing his head back against the pillows. Wilson grinned wildly, hovering above House and letting that gorgeous cock slide in and out of his fist - pulling him closer, as close as possible.
House whimpered for the first time and Wilson felt a thrill down his spine that made him shiver and squirm and cant his hips forward. He felt a desperate need to make House make more noise, to watch and see what happened when that iron control slipped away. Rolling to the mattress, he twisted them around again, needing to get back to face-to- face. In the process he spotted something on the nightstand and reached out to grab it.
"Ow!"
"Shit, sorry- I -" Wilson tossed the bottle of lube on the bed. "Y-you okay?"
A jerky nod. House's lip was already swelling.
Wilson leaned over to kiss him and sucked at it apologetically, squirting lube into his palm and wrapping the other arm around House. House bucked his hips and they slid together again and Wilson groaned, high and loud, and sank his teeth into House's earlobe.
"Oh god, you're so good." he panted, trying to match House's rhythm, trying to soak in every little detail. All House's ragged breaths and shudders, his tiny whimpers and moans became more frequent and almost reckless as Wilson's palms and hips brought him closer and closer to the edge. Wilson forced his eyes to stay open, despite the almost unbearable strain it created. "Come on, come on..."
House froze, his eyes glazed and pupil-blown: the moment hung in place like a water drop about to fall - and then his hips flew off the bed and the first spurt of ejaculate sprayed onto his chest and House moaned, the sound heavy and rich and full, the first real sound he'd made since his guilty mumbled confession. As his body shuddered with aftershocks, Wilson's breathless babbling became more and more incoherent as his body was first rigid and then boneless with the final pleasure of release.
The room was filled with the sound of ragged breathing. Wilson licked his lips and turned to his side, curious to see this strange and new side of his best friend: not only post-orgasmic, but hopefully relaxed, willing, well- fucked. "House?"
House cleared his thoat, but his voice was still hoarse and a little uncertain. "Yeah?"
"Listen, I'm sorry .... I just ... I guess ... I want you to be okay with this ... I mean, I'm okay with this, but if you're not okay with this, we could just - I really want you to know that it's not going to be just sex, that we're still friends too, and -"
"Wilson?"
"Yeah?"
"Remember what I said about there needing to be talking and you needing to do it?"
"Yeah...."
"I take it back. Quit harshing my afterglow."
Wilson laughed and ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his face. "You want something for your lip?"
"Nah." House's eyes were closed again, his face settling into an expression of peace. "Not a big deal. Besides, I don't have any ice and I don't want anything to do with your metrosexual frozen spoon crap."
"Okay."
This time, the silence was comfortable - and while Wilson was nervous about pulling the blanket over them and sliding his arm around House's shoulders, the slight upward quirk of House's mouth and his soft settling into Wilson's embrace settled that awkwardness rather quickly. "You up for bowling tomorrow night?"
House's voice had dropped to a sleepy murmur. "You paying?"
"Yeah."
"Sounds good."
author: phinnia
pairing: house/wilson
rating: nc-17 (whee for smut)
disclaimer: a wandering minstrel i, a thing of shreds and patches. i own nothing.
warnings/spoilers: nah.
author's note: thank you to my first readers for assuring me that the first part of this was good enough to continue, to arhh for the inspiration as to how I could continue it, and most of all to magie_05 for betaing above and beyond the call of duty, including pointing out my continuity errors and assuring me that it was not too long and not allowing me to be neurotic over it.
It would have been easier to deal with, House reflected, if they had been drunk.
Even if one of them had been drunk. Wilson drunk would make the most sense, because he was supposedly the sensible one with his Volvo and his library of ties and his meticulously planned dayplanner where everything was siphoned into fifteen-minute slots. He'd often wondered - when he could safely wonder about these things, which is to say when they were well and truly within the realm of the academic - if Wilson scheduled jacking off in the same way as he did everything else, lettered in black finepoint sharpie next to 'buy razor blades' and 'sort recycling'.
House would have volunteered to be the drunk one, if he'd known he was going to end up in this ridiculous state of half-between uncertainty, this overblown late-presenting teenage angst. He was tempted to go to the local geek hangout and see if he could get his hands on something, a time machine made out of three disassembled playstations and some duct tape or maybe a goddamn TARDIS just so he could go back in time and get plastered or even punch himself in the testicles, sympathetic pain and paradoxes be damned.
The problem was that they had both been terrifyingly sober. Tired definitely, lonely (he'd never actually say it, but under the cold light of logic and reason he was forced to silently admit it) and maybe desperate (that was all Wilson) but even those particular emotions weren't strong enough to force the issue.
It was just - an ordinary Wednesday night. They'd had pizza, they'd watched some stupid movie that censors had stripped clean of anything even close to objectionable, they'd had beer (the last two from a twelve-pack he'd bought the previous Sunday, so contamination was out) and somewhere between the hero's girlfriend freaking out and the second car chase Wilson had reached over and stuck his tongue in House's mouth; and instead of punching Wilson in the testicles, House kissed back, and then Wilson kissed harder, and then hands got involved and zippers and at least one belt hit the floor in the commotion and then he got too distracted to pay much attention to the order of things.
Thursday he had a case and clinic duty and Cuddy was bitching about some report he couldn't give a good goddamn about, all of which amounted to being so fucking busy he barely had time to shake off after a piss, and Wilson had that little wrinkle in his forehead that only happened after the third pointless administrative meeting since breakfast, so he'd had no time to think about it, and that was fine.
Friday things started to get weird.
Not that Wilson hanging around was anything particularly new, so there was no real reason why he should feel weird about it, or why he should feel like he wanted to say something (what, he had no idea), and Wilson was doing even more of that lip-biting thing he always did before he said anything serious, but that was pretty normal, or so he thought.
What wasn't normal was midafternoon when Wilson called him on the premise of a consult and as soon as the door closed behind him he was flattened against it and then molested; and it wasn't really normal that he was just as into it as Wilson was, his fingers shaking fumbling over zippers and tripping past buttons in a frantic attempt to get hands around smooth, hard flesh.
And okay, afterward Thirteen had noticed his fly was open, and Foreman was giving him more funny looks than usual, but that didn't mean a damn thing. Right?
Right.
Fast forward to now, Saturday night; playing piano and trying to figure out if he wanted this, wanted to bring it up, wanted to risk anything or everything to talk about this (and oh god, how far was he gone if he wanted to talk about this), or maybe just see how much it would cost to get a passport under an assumed name and live the rest of his days in a place with rum drinks and black-market vicodin.
He was leaning toward the last one when the lock rattled.
His hands stilled over the keys.
*
He'd walked around the block four times, streams of warm breath trailing through the cold clear night, before he worked up the courage to get the key out of his pocket; and he'd stared in the entranceway for ten minutes trying to talk himself into opening the door.
God. He was such an idiot.
This was impossible - this whole thing was impossible. Except for the fact that it felt so damn good. For the fact that he couldn't keep it out of his thoughts, out of his dreams, and his hands off of House (or himself). Jesus. The water bill was going to be impossible because of all the showers and he'd already jerked off more than he usually dared to at work - which really meant more than his previously comfortable zero, but this - this was -
Different.
The piano had stopped; House's hands were in midair. His own hand was still on the doorknob. The whole moment seemed misshapen, stretched; like a wool sweater that's gone through the wash.
Then it shattered. He exhaled a breath he'd forgot he was holding; House's hands slid to another chord.
"Hey." He held out the chips and six-pack he'd bought for reasons unknown (social lubricant? peace offering? sexual lubricant? he still wasn't sure)
"Hey."
"You ... there a game on?"
House was silent and still for another of those long moments, and Wilson had just opened up his mouth to speak when the piano lid shut and House turned to look at him for the first time since he'd come in. "Sure."
*
They eventually both moved to the sofa, carefully not-touching but near-touching, inches apart. The silence was thick enough to choke.
At some point he's going to want to talk about this. I've got to say something.
House doesn't trust words. He only trusts actions. I've got to do something.
Wilson shot to his feet. "I'm kind of hungry. You want something? Thought I'd order us a pizza. You know. Goes with the ... beer?"
"Sure." House coughed. "I - already ordered some." I was hoping you'd show up. I probably would have even called you, brainless sap that I apparently am; I needed to see you tonight. "Should be here soon. I'll get it this time."
"You don't have to, I don't mind." Wilson began to pace behind the sofa. His usual nervous fidgeting had broken from its bonds, blossoming into a desperate need to move, to find some kind of brainless activity before the tension in the room overflowed.
"I said I'll get it."
"Y-you sure?"
"Yes." House cleared his throat again. "Wilson. I-"
The words died in his throat as Wilson's hands fell to his shoulders, kneading, trying to smooth the knots out of his neck. Stubbornly, he half-turned. "You don't need to do that, you know."
Wilson's reply was barely audible. "I know. I want to."
Apparently this was some kind of sign-countersign model House didn't know he was familiar with, because they started kissing at that point; and then House moved sideways on the sofa and Wilson climbed over the back of it and tried to do it all without breaking contact between lips and fumbling hands but he landed on House's leg and ended up on the floor flat on his ass; House was swearing in at least two languages Wilson wasn't familiar with and Wilson was pretty sure he had a black eye from the coffee table.
Then the doorbell rang,
*
"You okay?"
"You've asked that twelve times in twenty minutes. I'm fine." Awkward pause. "You ... want an ice pack or something?"
"Um. sure. I'll get it." Another awkward pause. "You want one?"
"Ice doesn't help."
"Right."
Wilson vanished into the kitchen. House escaped to the bathroom and tried to figure out what the hell he was supposed to say now. Obviously they needed to talk about something - like how the fuck this happened and why now and why Wilson wanted him anyway and feelings and all that crap - Wilson was never happy unless he was analyzing the hell out of something - but he wasn't good at this talking shit, never mind initiating it. The fact that Wilson wasn't trying to initiate it was actually starting to spook him.
Wilson was fidgeting around the kitchen, making sure there was something to put on his black eye, washing dishes to kill time and worrying about what House was going to do. Knowing House (one of the things Wilson was good at) he was undoubtedly worried about being used, and Wilson knew damn well that talking was something that House was allergic to, like sulfa drugs and ragweed - he would have to find some way of working with that. At some point House was going to do something, and he wished the other shoe would drop.
He thought about it and paced the kitchen.
He wanted House to feel wanted and needed; wanted him to know that he was okay with their new relationship; wanted him to know that they were still friends as well as lovers, He'd initially thought the massage would work and maybe it would have if he hadn't failed so spectacularly at not noticing the intoxicating smell that House had - sweat and shampoo and Ivory soap and overtones of something entirely .
He sighed and poked around in the freezer to find something for his eye.
Oh, who was he kidding? There was no way he could touch House and stay distant; not when he knew the unexpected softness of that skin, the gasp and shudder, the soft fuzzy trail that led from his navel down to the slender length of cock -
"What the fuck are you doing?"
"Um. I'm, uh, holding a frozen spoon on my eye, why? Bonnie used to do it when her eyes were puffy. And you don't have any cucumbers. For my eyes. For the swelling. You know."
"No. I actually don't."
There was a long and awkward pause during which neither of them looked at each other. Then Wilson broke the silence by dropping the spoon into the sink. "Look, why don't we ... you know ... play X-box or som-"
"No." House took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "We are going to talk about this sex thing."
"What the hell is wrong with you? You hate talking!" Wilson stalked further out of the kitchen, backing House into a corner.
"You love it! Wrong with me, what the hell is wrong with you? You think I like talking about this? This is your job. I don't want to be you!"
"I'm trying to make you feel valued and less like a piece of meat, you fucking jackass!"
"Well, stop that!"
They stared at each other for a long moment; then House grabbed Wilson by the hair and kissed him; Wilson reached forward and grabbed House by the belt, dragging him down the hall toward the bedroom. It was really a minor miracle that neither of them sustained any more injuries, considering neither of them were paying attention.
"I ... I hate you sometimes." House muttered in between kisses, blindly unbuttoning Wilson's shirt. "You make me fucking stupid. Every time I - unf - every time I see you I can't - forget the way you sound ... I want to slam you on to th...the fu-fucking conference table and fuck you so hard the thing fucking breaks- I think K-kutner caught me s-staring at your ass in differential and -" With one final, frustrated tug the remaining buttons popped off, spraying across the room.
Wilson groaned, trying to tear House's pants off without breaking his lips away. "God, will you shut up and let me treat you like a piece of meat again?" He pushed House back on the bed, jerking bluejeans down over his ass, nipping at the point of a jutting bone. His eyes devoured over the landscape his hands had already travelled - across broad chest and shoulders, down smooth abdomen and the length of that beautiful cock that was hard and silky and fit perfectly into his hand with the purpling head swelling over the top. House gasped, a silent, shocked inhalation, tossing his head back against the pillows. Wilson grinned wildly, hovering above House and letting that gorgeous cock slide in and out of his fist - pulling him closer, as close as possible.
House whimpered for the first time and Wilson felt a thrill down his spine that made him shiver and squirm and cant his hips forward. He felt a desperate need to make House make more noise, to watch and see what happened when that iron control slipped away. Rolling to the mattress, he twisted them around again, needing to get back to face-to- face. In the process he spotted something on the nightstand and reached out to grab it.
"Ow!"
"Shit, sorry- I -" Wilson tossed the bottle of lube on the bed. "Y-you okay?"
A jerky nod. House's lip was already swelling.
Wilson leaned over to kiss him and sucked at it apologetically, squirting lube into his palm and wrapping the other arm around House. House bucked his hips and they slid together again and Wilson groaned, high and loud, and sank his teeth into House's earlobe.
"Oh god, you're so good." he panted, trying to match House's rhythm, trying to soak in every little detail. All House's ragged breaths and shudders, his tiny whimpers and moans became more frequent and almost reckless as Wilson's palms and hips brought him closer and closer to the edge. Wilson forced his eyes to stay open, despite the almost unbearable strain it created. "Come on, come on..."
House froze, his eyes glazed and pupil-blown: the moment hung in place like a water drop about to fall - and then his hips flew off the bed and the first spurt of ejaculate sprayed onto his chest and House moaned, the sound heavy and rich and full, the first real sound he'd made since his guilty mumbled confession. As his body shuddered with aftershocks, Wilson's breathless babbling became more and more incoherent as his body was first rigid and then boneless with the final pleasure of release.
The room was filled with the sound of ragged breathing. Wilson licked his lips and turned to his side, curious to see this strange and new side of his best friend: not only post-orgasmic, but hopefully relaxed, willing, well- fucked. "House?"
House cleared his thoat, but his voice was still hoarse and a little uncertain. "Yeah?"
"Listen, I'm sorry .... I just ... I guess ... I want you to be okay with this ... I mean, I'm okay with this, but if you're not okay with this, we could just - I really want you to know that it's not going to be just sex, that we're still friends too, and -"
"Wilson?"
"Yeah?"
"Remember what I said about there needing to be talking and you needing to do it?"
"Yeah...."
"I take it back. Quit harshing my afterglow."
Wilson laughed and ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his face. "You want something for your lip?"
"Nah." House's eyes were closed again, his face settling into an expression of peace. "Not a big deal. Besides, I don't have any ice and I don't want anything to do with your metrosexual frozen spoon crap."
"Okay."
This time, the silence was comfortable - and while Wilson was nervous about pulling the blanket over them and sliding his arm around House's shoulders, the slight upward quirk of House's mouth and his soft settling into Wilson's embrace settled that awkwardness rather quickly. "You up for bowling tomorrow night?"
House's voice had dropped to a sleepy murmur. "You paying?"
"Yeah."
"Sounds good."