Work Text:
“We should have sex.”
Wilson hadn’t even closed the door to House’s apartment behind himself. Briefly, he considered rebuttoning his coat, turning around, and walking right out. It had been a long day at the end of a long week; whatever inscrutable torture this was could wait until he didn’t have a headache. Instead, he finished hanging up his coat and called over his shoulder.
“Come again?”
House didn’t answer. Wilson closed the door, shook the snow out of his hair, prayed for patience, and finally turned to look straight at House with what he hoped was his best glare. House was sitting on the couch in front of a small fire with a gossip rag in one hand, mug in the other, smiling right back.
House took a slow sip, then said, “You know, sex. Clothes off, rub our naked bodies against each other, feel good for a little while.”
Wilson loosened his cuff and moved towards the couch, playing at casual. It was never a good idea to give House the satisfaction of surprise. Instead, he raised a single, doubtful eyebrow. House laid a hand over his heart.
“What? You don’t believe me? I’m wounded.”
“There are controverting factors,” Wilson snipped, and sat down on the couch, hard.
“Such as?
“You’re an ass, and you like to mess with me.”
“Yeah, keep up. I’m asking to mess with you.” Wilson barely contained an eyeroll. House threw the magazine onto the coffee table and waved dismissively. “I disqualify those on principle. What else?”
“You like women.”
“Irrelevant.”
“I’m your only friend.”
House paused at that. “Are you saying you wouldn’t respect me in the morning? Love me and leave me?”
This time, Wilson really did roll his eyes. “House, where’s this coming from?”
“I notice that’s not a no.”
Wilson sighed, “Come on, give me some of whatever’s in that cup. It’s obviously working wonders on you.”
House handed it over, and Wilson drank without hesitating, figuring it would be better without a smell-test first. And he was right. He grimaced as he swallowed.
“This is awful.”
“Excuse you. Shadowed Valley Vinyards has received fifty best wine awards. The big sticker on the box says so.”
He took another sip, almost fascinated. “You make just as much as I do a year. You could afford to binge drink a mid-shelf merlot.”
“You’re such a snob. Let’s have sex.”
“House.” Wilson gave him a stern look and shoved the mug back into his hands. “Be serious for half a second. I need to catch up to whatever game you’re playing.” House started to say something back, but Wilson stopped him with a raised hand. “Or just be quiet, if being serious is too hard.”
House shrugged, then flipped on the TV. Beach volleyball, muted. Wilson sighed and sat back. When he snuck a glance over, House was watching the screen with a small smile on his face. Wilson wondered if it was the sexual harassment or the bikinis (or some mysterious third thing) putting that stupid smile on his face. Knowing House, it was some combination of all three. Wilson snatched the mug back and took another sip.
House’s voice came low and sing-song, “Oh, would you get a load of that.”
Wilson looked over the rim of the mug at three sweaty women bent over on the screen. The next swig tasted better. “Who do you think decides the cut of those bottoms?”
“The officials… The underwear officials.”
Wilson smiled at the dreaminess in his tone. “Why’d we go to med school again?”
In his peripheral vision, he saw House look over at him, but Wilson kept his eyes on the screen.
“Has it been half a second yet?”
“I was trying to tactfully let the subject drop.”
“Is this how you get under all those skirts? Deny, deny, deny?”
That earned the glare House had clearly been fishing for. Team USA scored another point, then another. House took the mug back, got up with a load groan, limped to the kitchen, and came back with it full again. When he sat down, he was closer than before, their legs touching, one arm thrown behind Wilson’s shoulders.
“Scowling at me won’t make this go away.”
“What will? Can we skip to that part?”
House raised his eyebrows. “Ooh, testy today.”
Cheap wine and sandy skin and House’s general jack-assery fizzled at his nerves. He had meant it before; he didn’t understand this game, and he wasn’t particularly interested in playing. Better to cut it off at the pass. He let out a sigh and asked, “Alright, how’d you know?”
That grin was back. House settled further into the couch, already gloating a little.
“Know what?”
Wilson glanced at the asses. For strength.
“That I sleep with men.”
House’s eyes lit up with pure delight. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“I assume that’s what this is about. You figured it out somehow, even though I haven’t been with a man in, I don’t know, four years, and you’ve decided tonight is the night to torture me with it.”
“No torturing. Promise. Unless you’re into that.”
“Cut the cute crap, or I get a hotel room.”
House raised his eyebrows and offered him the mug. They watched each other warily as Wilson took a few deep drinks.
When House spoke again, his voice had lost just a little of that asshole edge.
“I’ve known for a long time. Since I met you. Working in a hospital, you can’t really miss it. There are two genders of nurses, and you don’t discriminate which one you’re ogling.”
Wilson felt himself getting defensive. “It can’t be that obvious. You’re the only person who’s noticed.”
“I notice things better than other people. It’s, like, my job or something.”
“Is it your job to notice things about me?”
“That one’s a pastime.”
“Flattering.” Wilson paused. “Okay, premise accepted. You’ve known my dirty little secret forever, and you’re cashing in on it now.”
House narrowed his eyes and titled his head, looking for something.
Wilson flinched back. “What?”
“I thought you would be embarrassed.”
“Why? Because being gay is icky?”
House looked back at the screen. “Because you never told me. I assumed it must bother you.”
Wilson felt a brief rush of relief. One mystery solved.
“I hurt your feelings.” House started to protest, but Wilson talked over him. “I hurt your feelings by not telling you, and for some reason you’re taking revenge today.”
House watched him for a second, wheels clearly turning, then asked, “Does it? Bother you?”
“No. Never really has.” House was still studying his face, maybe looking for the classic signs of lying. He wouldn’t find any. “I’ve always liked women. More than men, easily. So it’s just never mattered that much.”
“But you never told me. Not even when you banged that visiting oncology fellow a few years back.”
“Nathan. That was fun.” Wilson spent a moment studying House right back, looking for signs of discomfort. He didn’t see any. “We don’t talk about everything. Especially not about who I sleep with.”
“We do talk about that. Kind of a lot, actually.”
“Are your feelings really hurt? I can tell you all about it if you want. Let me have a little more wine first, though.”
House paused the TV on a convenient shot of one of the players diving for the ball, boobs pushed together, sand spraying dramatically.
“As much as I am just dying to hear about your first, sweaty handjob at the boy scout jamboree, there are more pressing matters.”
House’s index finger pushed under the back of his shirt collar.
“House, don’t take it personally.”
“But you knew. About me. We could have shared that. Confided in each other. Made out.”
“Somehow, you are even harder to follow right now than usual. What did I know?”
“It’s because you’re turned on. Hard to think with all that blood rushing downwards.”
“House.” Wilson snapped his fingers, trying to keep him on track. “What did I know about you?”
“You knew that I also fuck men.”
It was insulting, really. Wilson held up a finger and firmly said, “No. I knew from your bragging that you went to a bunch of orgies in college and med school and didn’t mind too much what kind of person ended up in your lap. Between your risk-seeking tendencies and, uh, let’s say, extreme admiration for the fairer sex, I always assumed it was… you know… youthful experimentation.”
“Well, it wasn’t.” Wilson watched for signs of sincerity, but House just leered back. “Alright, all the boring stuff is covered, let’s knock boots.”
“You haven’t been with a man in twenty years. You haven’t been with a man without an audience.”
“That you know of.”
“Okay, so you didn’t tell me either, which means you can’t be mad because you were doing the same thing, to me!”
“I never said I was mad. I said we should have sex.”
“I have no idea what is happening right now, House.”
“I’m telling you the tragic truth - two sexually active adult males spent ten years not doing the nasty. A tragedy that we can fix. Right now.”
“I promise, whatever you’re trying to get from me right now, this is not the way to get it.”
House looked down and away, but his finger was still tracing under the back of Wilson’s collar, a little too slowly and sweetly to be credibly understood as a joke.
“What if,” House spoke each word slowly, as if he was waiting for Wilson’s reaction to each one, maybe planning to adjust as he went, “I told you… I… want to?”
Wilson had to smile at that. “You don’t sound sure.”
House pinched the back of his neck, hard, and Wilson let out a undignified sound.
“Your turn to get the wine.”
Wilson reached up, flicked him on the ear, and stood. He loosened his tie as he walked to the kitchen and left it hanging over one of the chairs. He thought again about grabbing his coat and leaving, but even as it crossed his mind, he knew he wouldn’t. He was too entertained, too curious about what House’s angle was. He glanced back to the living room. The volleyball was playing again. He smiled and picked up the whole box.
“Where’d you get this? You don’t exactly go to the grocery store often,” he asked as he plopped it down on the coffee table and sat, careful to leave a more normal amount of space between them.
“If I told you, you wouldn’t want to drink any more of it.” House filled the mug and pushed it toward Wilson’s face. “Go on. Gotta get you drunk so you’ll do me.”
“I’m starting to think you don’t know how to effectively convince me to do anything.” House pulled the mug back, took a drink and narrowed his eyes, back to examining. Wilson threw up his hands. “Are you going to tell me what this is really about anytime soon?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Your ass in those sensible wide-leg chinos just makes me weak at the knees.”
Wilson ignored him and kept talking, more to himself than anything. “But it’s not about ‘why’, is it? It’s about ‘why now’.”
“Me horny.”
Wilson went to flick House on the ear again, but he dodged it.
“You could have pulled this stunt at any time in the last ten years. If I find the reason you are doing this now, then the reason you are doing this at all will follow.”
“Are you doing a differential diagnosis on my come on?”
“On your fake come on.” House held out the cup. Wilson took it, cautiously. “Where’d you get it?”
“Patient’s house. Foreman brought it back, thought it might be contaminated.” Wilson just watched him, waiting for the punchline. “Don’t worry. Tests were negative. All clear.”
“Stolen and suspect. My favorite tasting notes.” He took another drink. “Let’s try this again. Why now, House?”
“See? I do know how to convince you to do things. Lie.”
Wilson took another drink anyway. House looked offended at his lack of concern.
Wilson licked his lips, then said, “You’re drinking it, too. Can’t be that bad.”
“Unless I have the antidote.”
Wilson took a pointed sip while keeping eye contact. “I feel like we’ve gotten off track here.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Where were we? Oh yeah, let’s do it.”
“I think we were on ‘why now’.”
“I like the ‘why’ question better, so I’m going to answer that. I just can’t help myself any longer.”
“House, I know you’re not serious, so can we just add that to our assumptions? Please?”
“How do you know I’m not serious?”
“There are so many ways to answer that.”
“Choose one.”
Wilson put up a hand then let it slap back down to his knee in exasperation.
“I’m not your type.”
“What’s my type?”
He knew it was bait, but he took it anyway. “For hire?”
“How about… Insufferable brunettes.” Wilson floundered with that for a moment, and House took the opportunity to scooch closer and nudge back under Wilson’s collar, this time with his whole hand. “Picture this. Us, on this couch. Very much like this, actually. Except we have our pants open. Watch volleyball, with the sound this time. I like the grunts they make. No funny business. We don’t even have to kiss.”
“No kissing? Why?”
House’s reply came back fast, flippant as ever. “‘Cause that would be fruity.”
“And the mutual masturbation wouldn’t be? I don’t accept your terms. Kissing’s non-negotiable.”
“So this is a negotiation now? Uh, score.” Wilson was vaguely aware that they had crossed a line while he wasn’t paying attention. House licked his lips and said, “If we’re making deals, what do I get?”
“I’m pretty sure the last twenty minutes of bewildering conversation have been reward enough for you.”
“Oh baby, you know me so well.”
“If I have to ask you one more time, I’ll punish you.” Wilson wielded his hand, ready for another flick on the ear. “Why now?”
They were both smiling a little, eyes alert, enjoying annoying each other more than was reasonable. Wilson could feel his cheeks getting hot from the wine and the fire. House looked like he was deciding what gambit to deploy next; Wilson smiled wider.
“Two months ago…” He was talking slow again, buying time. “We went to that topless bar.”
“Uhuh…” It hadn’t been his proudest moment. He’d had a bad day at work on top of the situation with Julie, and House managed to spin the pity party in that direction with a promise of a “surprisingly good buffet.” It had turned out to be an outright lie, of course. By the time they’d driven the twenty miles to Midnight Treasures, it didn’t seem worth it to turn around. The buffet was closed, but based off the carpet pile and the concrete statues in the corners, Wilson wouldn’t have eaten it anyway. It didn’t matter. It was an excuse for he and House to sit four feet apart on a pleather couch and get flirted with by half-naked women that were young enough to be their daughters. Wilson narrowed his eyes at House. “So naturally, the bare breasts by your face led you to a homosexual epiphany?”
“The bare breasts by your face, actually.”
It had the cadence of a joke but somehow didn’t land that way. House took a slow drink and dragged his fingertips up the far side of Wilson’s neck.
This was escalating quickly, but the more it escalated, the faster Wilson would get his answers. He steepled his fingers and put on his best therapist voice. “Can you tell me more about that?”
House seemed to get the joke, because he rolled his eyes.
“I realized.” Wilson tilted his head, waiting for the rest. House looked down, away. “That I was looking at you.”
“That’s actually… nice. I think?”
“You’re living here, divorced again. Pathetic. Alone.”
“-And there goes the niceness-”
“And, well,” House’s eyes flashed back towards him, “you know me. A lonely soul by nature. A misanthrope with a heart of gold.”
Wilson started to nod, cringing a little in expectation. “I think I see where this is going.”
“Yes, how could you not? I’ve already given you the answer: Me horny.” He leaned closer. “But, critically - you horny too.”
Wilson suppressed the eighteenth eyeroll of the night - at the grammar, the stupidity, the bluff of it all. He batted House’s hand away from his neck and leaned forward to refill the empty mug. It poured for a few seconds, then sputtered and stopped. Wilson emptied the cup in one swallow, then looked back at House.
“Any chance you’ve got more?”
“No more of that shit, but I’ve got scotch.”
House started to push himself upright to go fetch it, but halfway up, he collapsed with a short yell. Wilson watched blankly for a moment as House writhed, brain unable to catch up with the abrupt shift in mood.
“Fuck. Christ.”
His knuckles were white where they gripped at his thigh. Wilson tensed, waiting for a way to be helpful, even though there usually wasn’t much to be done. It took over a minute for the spasm to pass, House swearing under his breath and avoiding eye-contact throughout. Wilson had been wishing for honesty since he arrived, and now he was sorry to see it, and sorry to have wished it.
Once House’s breathing had slowed somewhat, Wilson ventured, “Bad pain day?”
“Another brilliant diagnosis.”
“I think it’s better we don’t have that scotch anyway. You want me to get you water or anything?”
House’s eyes finally met his. “No, I’m fine. Just stay here.”
Wilson let himself smile. “House, I live on this couch. Where am I going to go?”
“You threatened to get a hotel room.”
He had to laugh a little at that. “How are you still managing to be manipulative right now?”
“Playing into my strengths.” He was back to rubbing at it, face and posture relaxing slowly. It was Wilson leaning close now, an inversion of their posture before. House spoke, voice low, “I think you were gearing up to tell me why I’m hitting on you.”
Wilson sighed, chagrined. “I was going to tell you why you’re hitting on me today. Remember, I’ve arbitrarily decided the timeframe is key.”
“Okay, genius. Why today?”
Wilson sat back, watching House’s face. Curiosity, tinged with pain. But his eyes were bright, expectant. Waiting for whatever distraction Wilson might give him.
“Well, it’s obvious. You said it yourself. You’re identifying with my loneliness. So, rather than face that head on, you’re tormenting me with it.”
House scoffed. “This is not torment.”
“Most people would take this personally, House. I just came out to you-” House made another dismissive sound, but Wilson pushed on “-and you’re throwing it in my face, mocking me.”
“I propositioned you before you came out. The un-closeting was secondary.”
“But you already knew!”
“Half the time when I say I already knew something, I’m lying.”
“Which half was this?”
House narrowed his eyes. He was still sitting back, pushing at his thigh with one hand, mouth curling back into a smile.
“You’re being ridiculous,” House said.
“Me? I’m?” Wilson sputtered back. “Me?”
“I’ve been practically begging since you got here. What would I have to do to convince you I mean it?”
They watched each other for a moment. Wilson spoke carefully.
“I was wrong earlier. You do know how to convince me to do something. I know you do.”
“Yep, we’ve been over that. Lie, withhold, let your earnest little brain fill in the gaps.”
More bait. But Wilson was done biting.
“No. You know. The real way. You already tried it, but couldn’t quite get there. Try again. If you really mean it, it might work.”
House was completely still except for his eyes darting. He took a breath.
“Please.” It was clearly hard for him to say. It always was, for him. “I want to. Please.”
Wilson still hadn’t figured it out. The why, or the why now. It was probably too convoluted to understand anyway. Distraction from pain, loneliness, latent attraction, recklessness, who knew what else. House certainly wasn’t going to tell. He might not even know himself.
All that didn’t matter, though, because House was asking, and, in his own way, he meant it.
They were already leaned close. Wilson reached forward, grabbed House by both sides of his face, and closed the rest of the distance. It was nice, Wilson thought. Patient, slow. House’s lips were warm, and responsive, and tasted like cheap wine.
Wilson drew back slowly, relishing the soft, wet sound while he could, ready to be eviscerated, ready for whatever odd fork in the road House was going to take them down now. When he opened his eyes, House was already looking back, expression unreadable.
House licked his lips, then said, “I lied, earlier.”
“About…?”
“I stole it from Cuddy’s house.”
Wilson paused for a moment, confused. Then he understood.
“The wine,” he groaned. “Why in the world were you in her house?”
“It’s a long story. She was harboring patient information, I knew she was busy at the hospital…”
“I don’t want to know.” He thought for another moment. “Cuddy has horrible taste.”
“I feel like her obvious thing for me could have been a clue there.”
He wasn’t being mocked. Might as well keep going. He leaned in again for a short peck, and then, faces still close, breath catching, mumbled, “Where does that leave me, then?”
This time, House was ready for him. It lasted longer, had a push and a pull that started to put an ache in his gut. House was cooperative, which, if Wilson had been asked any time before today, would have been the last word he would have guessed might describe House as a partner. But it was true, at least for the time being - the first kiss, and now the second. House kept his lips soft, his movements slow. He let Wilson’s hands guide him, angle him, grab him and move him.
Wilson pulled back again, but not far this time, shallow breaths spilling across House’s face, lips dragging lightly on his stubble. Again, House broke the silence.
“Non-negotiable, huh?”
WIlson smiled, leaned his forehead against House’s. “Yeah. I like it.”
“Bullshit. You don’t like it. You’re good at it.”
Wilson kissed him again instead of answering. He made a small sound and sucked at House’s bottom lip, pulling at it gently, feeling the start of wet heat, but he pulled back instead of opening him up, pushing deeper. The slower, the better.
“Chicken or the egg. Do I like it because I’m good at it or I am good at it because-”
“You’re a fucking moron.”
House pulled him back in, and Wilson felt it in the pit of his stomach and the back of his neck. House’s tongue was surprisingly cooperative, too. Things were slowly shifting from escalation and curiosity to something else, and the realization felt like was going to melt Wilson’s brain. He slid one hand down House’s neck to feel along his shoulder and chest.
This time, House broke the kiss. He was breathing hard, eyes soft and unfocused. Wilson watched House’s adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.
“You’re my only friend.”
Wilson breathed for a moment and pulled both of his hands back from House, let him have some space. He was rubbing at his leg, and he had a familiar, small frown on his face, brow furrowed - that stupid, sad clown expression.
“You idiot.” The affection was obvious in his own voice, but he couldn't bring himself to regret it. House’s eyes snapped up to him. “It won’t change anything.”
“You chew through women.”
He looked genuinely bothered. House’s ability to bluff seemed to have been impeded by the frenching. Wilson stored away that strategy for another day.
“I chew through everyone, and so do you. A screw won’t change whatever keeps this going. I’m not sure anything would.”
And it was strange, hearing it in his own voice that it was the truth, that this was going to happen, and only knowing for sure after it left his lips. House still looked furtive, moody, like he’d turned the corner on his delicate alcohol and vicodin cocktail, but Wilson didn’t care. It would be an easy fix. He leaned back in and tried his best to give him something more interesting to think about.
Even after the hand-wringing, House was so loose, so easy to guide. Wilson’s head was starting to buzz with it - the power, and the permission. A thousand thoughts were surfacing, things he’d always ignored to the point of outright denial. Shut him up; take his time; run lips up his cheeks, down his jaw; suck a mark into his neck, just under the stubble; slow his mind down. None of it was new, he realized as he pushed House over, tipped him back to lay on the couch, crawled over him. He wondered if House was having similar revelations, or if he already had, and that’s why this was happening at all.
Wilson gave him one more, deep kiss, then reached over to the coffee table, grabbed the remote, and pressed the mute button. The sound switched on in the middle of a roar from the crowd, and then the grunting started. He threw the remote to the side. When he looked back down, House was watching him with a pleased expression.
He licked his lips and said, “I lied.”
“How many does that make now?”
“When I said I fuck men.”
It was another puzzle, a small test designed to get a rise out of him. Wilson sat back on his knees and dragged hands down House’s shoulders and arms, stroked at the skin at the inside of his wrists.
“I know.” House’s face scrunched, surprised, maybe a little disappointed. Wilson shook his head. He felt so high - so fond, so ready. “Subject-object issue. You get fucked.” House’s mouth curled into a begrudging smile. “All you do is take, House. Not really a mystery which side of the equation you’d fall on. Luckily for you, I do actually fuck men.” Wilson started at his belt. “Any more lies?”
“None that we need to go over right at this moment.”
Wilson paused at his fly. “You okay with this?”
“You’re such a buzzkill.” House grabbed him by the collar, pulled him down roughly. Wilson landed with his face buried in House’s neck. House’s voice came low in his ear. “Bump, set, spike it, that’s the way I like it.”
Wilson muffled his laugh by starting back at House’s neck. House finally put his hands to good use, bringing them between their bodies, first to pull at the buttons on Wilson’s shirt, then to give him a rough stroke, over his pants. He ground down into House’s hand and sighed in frustration. His hands were occupied holding himself up.
“Open-” He paused and sighed into House’s neck. “-open your fly for me.”
House obeyed immediately, and Wilson had to close his eyes against the renewed rush of satisfaction. Some part of his brain told him he shouldn’t be getting off on his best friend listening to him. But why not? He got his left hand onto the arm of the couch behind House’s head, used the better leverage to put a little distance between their bodies again, get a good look at him. House’s face was turned toward the TV, so Wilson turned to watch as well and pushed his free hand into House’s boxers.
He was hard, and a little damp at the tip. Ready. He gave him a few good strokes, watched his eyes slip closed, then open again.
“How long have you had this recorded?” He kept his tone light and worked him again, twisting carefully. “It’s February.”
“It’s an old favorite.” House’s voice was strained. Wilson craned down to kiss at his ear. House’s hands had found their way under Wilson’s undershirt, fingers trailing over his hip bones, his stomach, dipping under his belt, finally reaching for the buckle. House turned his head back to meet Wilson’s eyes. “I thought of one more lie.” The jangle of the buckle, the sound of the zipper. “Your pants are stupid and do nothing for your ass.”
Wilson laughed and kissed him again, mostly to keep him quiet. House got a hand around him, fell in time with Wilson’s strokes. Five, ten minutes ago, Wilson had thought they might make it to the bed, might get a little more creative. In the end (big surprise) House had been right - open pants, TV on, feeling good for a little while. They slowly got used to each other, adjusted their strokes, lingered in the right places. Wilson felt overloaded with new information. Kiss there, stroke a thumb over the head, use teeth, tell him what to do, tell him when he's doing well. He’d been worried about overwhelming House, coming on too strong, being too earnest, too eager, but House’s free hand was held tight at the back of his head, keeping him in place, pulling him closer, deeper. Needy, always so needy. He shouldn’t have worried.
House tipped over first, hips pushing up into Wilson’s fist, face going slack. Wilson kept kissing him anyway, his lips and teeth and cheeks, feeling the rumble of small, quiet groans up close. When he did pull back, they both looked down, watched hands move over each other, rumpled clothing, haste and need and not much else.
House’s hand stilled and his eyes slipped closed as he came. Wilson watched the feeling roll over him; it was quiet, intense. Looked like a good one. He let his weight drop down again, burying his face back in House’s neck, dick sliding through the mess on House’s stomach. House clutched at his hips, urging him to thrust there, and breathed dirty, satisfied sounds directly into his ear. Wilson tensed, felt it peak, whited out briefly, gasped with the feeling of it, of the body below him, of releasing slow and hot onto warm, wet skin.
It felt like a long way down. His heart didn’t seem to want to slow, but he pushed himself up and off House before it did, on the off chance that his weight was uncomfortable on his leg. After a little fumbling, he landed sitting upright in the middle of the couch with House’s legs draped over his lap. His dress shirt was open but still on, his undershirt, his belt, his pants. Somehow, he wasn’t too much worse for wear. He glanced over. House would need a new t-shirt.
Wilson’s eyes trailed up from the stains to House’s face. His eyes were still closed, still blissed. Wilson smiled.
After a few minutes watching House and listening to the sweet sounds of Olympic volleyball, Wilson asked quietly, “You like tits by my face, huh?”
House waved an annoyed hand. “Don’t make this fruitier than it already is.”
“Boobs are the least fruity thing imaginable.”
House rolled his neck and said something unintelligible, eyes still stubbornly closed.
Wilson fought a smile and asked, “What was that?”
“... Yes.”
“Hmm?”
“Yes, Wilson, I like tits by your face.”
He watched House start to rub at his thigh.
“We could go to a strip club sometime. I’ll let you buy me a lap dance.”
That did the trick. House’s eyes cracked open, and he smiled - really smiled. Wilson watched the idea sink in, watched the gears turn. House cleared his throat, and his face suddenly turned solicitous and puppy-eyed.
“I know it’s not your style, but… could I talk you into a hooker?”
Wilson made a face. “Can we try fucking first? Alone?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. But then…?”
They watched each other for a moment. Some part of Wilson wanted to hem, to haw, to argue and carry on. But they’d already done a lot of that today.
"Maybe. I'll have to think about it."
House gave him one last, sharp look before settling in again to watch. Wilson watched him for a second longer, then started to watch as well.
They both already knew what the answer would be.
After all, he'd never been any good at saying no to House.