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 Posting a reply to post #13245

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13245 No.13245
Can we have some House/Wilson stuff please?

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The bromance transcends the lack of /co/.

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You know, I should feel bad for posting this. But I don't. :D

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OMG House/Wilson chibis~

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Please don't let this ugly ass ship invade another part of my internet life.

Reported for no connection whatsoever to /co/. Go back to LJ, faggots.

well, it's essentially modernized Holmes/Watson, so in that light it could be considered related.


polite sage, no need to bump for drama

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Yeah, not to mention lazy-eyed.

Also, Holmes/Watson > this retarded ship, and STILL NOT /co/ RELATED.

"Not /co/-related" is kind of a moot point now. We've been having Kiss Kiss Bang Bang threads (which I guess are tangentially related because RDJ and Val Kilmer both played superheroes NOT THAT I'M COMPLAINING) and the District 9 thread is going strong (I could complain more about this one, but eh). TF2 (/v/), Doctor Horrible, and Doctor Who (both closer to the /tv/ end) are also somewhat grey areas, since their source materials aren't explicitly comic book or cartoon oriented, even if they have adaptations.

I think at this point, we just give the thread a go, like with KKBB. If it garners enough interest, just let it stay and ignore it.

>Modernized Holmes and Watson

There is nothing wrong with House/Wilson except for when their fans insist that they are the new Holmes/Watson. They aren't. House has very little in common with Holmes besides a self-destructive genius, and Wilson doesn't have much in common to Watson besides being a Doctor.


the show is entirely based on the premise of House as Holmes. he even lives at 221B. it might not be a very close match, but it was the intention of the creators just the same.

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Too late, asshole!


Nobody likes a wanker


I'm just going to point out a basket full of sleeping pink kittens can't be as cute as houses face here. I d'awwed like a bitch.

While you're correct that it has absolutely no relation to /co/, /pco/ and /coq/ are open for anything Western, Western-inspired, and drawn. (Seriously, look at /pco/'s listing in the FAQ.) They're meant to be as much a place to post toon porn as they are a refuge for similar interests that aren't allowed on most other *chans.

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Less talk more porn, please


Hey! It's gay, and It's porn.

What else do you want?

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Man, all I've got is SFW stuff. :/

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I know this is a House and Wilson thread, but I don't think you guys will mind if I post this, right?

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bumping to spite ass holes.

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I wish I could show that to House and Wilson. Just to see their reaction.

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needs more fic

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Thank you, sir.

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Post some fanfic pleaseeee

Okay, well, since there's no fic in here, I'm gonna dump some non-original content, but my fav fic for the pair so I'm going up. Hopefully, some of you haven't read it some place else.


Like most change for the worse, it starts out small.

Wilson stops coming to the cafeteria for lunch. At first House puts it down to fluke, but after three consecutive days of buying his own food he goes to Wilson's office to find it empty, his coat gone. Cuddy's office is next.

"Where the hell's Wilson?"

Cuddy doesn't look up from her paperwork.

"Don't know. Come in, by the way."

"He's not in his office."

"Then I guess he's at lunch."

"His coat is gone."

"Then I guess he's out to lunch."

"When does Wilson ever go out to lunch?"

"House, don't ask me, I thought you were the one with the tracking device on him."

"That would be intrusive. I'm merely concerned."

Cuddy rolls her eyes and stands up, carrying a stack of papers towards the doorway.

"You know, most kids are taught to share. You are both an only child and a jerk, so maybe you never learned, but once in a while you have to put the toy down and give the other children a chance."

"I have no problem with sharing, I have a problem with preternaturally cutthroat children. Which, by the way, I thought we were in agreement on."

"Wilson's a big boy. I told him what I think, it's up to him to decide how to use that information. Unlike some people, I can handle the possibility that I might be wrong."

"Gosh, what an attitude. If only I could be so well adjusted."

"Let it go, House", she warns as she leaves. "You're not losing him."

He stares after her for a while, trying to interpret the words as anything other than hollow.
There is no doubt in his mind whatsoever that his patient does not have cancer. Only three out of five symptoms match the diagnosis at all and the MRI couldn't have come back much clearer. He pages Wilson for a consult nonetheless.

"What about early onset Alzheimer's?" Kutner suggests. "Would explain the memory loss, the mood changes, the delusional behaviour--"

"You do know that early onset doesn't actually mean early, right? It sure as hell doesn't mean thirty one years old."

"Makes more sense than cancer," Kutner retorts.

"Wait, are we still on cancer?" Thirteen asks, bemused. "The MRI is clear."

"Doesn't matter. He needs an excuse to pester Wilson," Foreman explains.

"The MRI is inconclusive."

"House, there's nothing inconclusive about it!" Thirteen exclaims. "There's no tumour in her brain. Can we stop wasting time?"

"Actually, since when do you need an excuse?" Foreman asks, frowning. "Why not just barge in on him like you usually do?"

"Now that would be wasting time," House replies, feigning shock. "What I'm doing is taking precautions."

The phone rings, cutting Thirteen off as she opens her mouth to reply.


"This is Doctor Brown," comes the distinctly unfamiliar voice. "Doctor Wilson said you need a consult."

He stares at the receiver for a moment before replacing it, not bothering to reply. Without missing a beat he grabs his cane and strides towards the door, ignoring the array of bemused stares.

"Since when do you pawn my consults off onto Brown?"

Wilson looks up as House throws his door open, frowning.

" busy, figured Brown could handle it."

"You figured."

"Yeah." He crosses his arms over his chest, defensive. "Why, what's the big deal?"

"Where did you go for lunch?" House asks swiftly.

Wilson mouths incoherently for a moment or two, caught off guard.

"Why...Since when do you care where I go for lunch?"

"Date with the better half? And I use the word `better' in the sense of `pure evil'."

"I thought we were over this. I thought you''d reformed, you'd found the noble art of self-sacrifice."

"Your words, not mine. I told you, I don't sacrifice self."

"House," Wilson says, in a placating tone that sets his teeth on edge. "What was I supposed to do, invite you? Bring her along to lunch in the cafeteria?"

"Sure, why not?"

"Right, I'd forgotten how well you deal with change."

House glares at him in silence.

"Look, do you want me to do the consult now?"

"No," House mutters, averting his gaze. "It's not cancer."

Wilson sighs, nodding. Figuring it might not be too late to save face he turns to leave, shooting what he hopes is a flippant glance over his shoulder.

"You owe me lunch tomorrow. Reuben doesn't buy itself."

The last straw comes when House, more for symbolism's sake than anything, gets hold of the best monster truck tickets available for love or money. He doesn't even try to disguise the inherent guilt trip when he presents them to Wilson, the unspoken "hey, remember the last time you turned these down?", and can't bring himself to feel any hint of surprise when Wilson looks at him apologetically.

"Friday, I can't. I really, really can't."

"Conference? Rectal cancer?"

"Dinner. With Amber."

"So, cancel. Lie."

"I can't cancel on her, not again. Can't do it."

House smiles bitterly, his stomach churning.

"So how does this work between you guys? Is it like a timeshare thing, she gives you back your balls for weekends and public holidays...?"

"I already cancelled a date once this week, I had to work late. I have to go this time."

"Have to? Wow. Now that's romance."

Wilson gives him a look. "I didn't--"

"Most couples make it through at least the first six months before they get to that resentful sense of obligation stage, you guys are way ahead of the game."

"I want to go," Wilson amends, firmly. "Believe it or not, Amber actually makes me happy. Which I know to you probably constitutes the eighth deadly sin, but for some people it's actually a good thing. Healthy."

"Right, because you're the world-class expert on well adjusted. Keep kidding yourself." He can't keep the bitter edge out of his voice.

"This relationship isn't going to fail just because you want it to, House."

"No. It'll fail because you're you."

"Funny, I thought you said it was going to fail because she's you. A proxy, right?"

There are about a hundred things he wants to say then but he's said too much already, Wilson's looking intently at him and he can't remember ever feeling this exposed.

"She's not me," he snaps, his voice more brittle than he'd like.

For a moment, one brief, glorious moment he thinks he sees a flicker of something in Wilson's eyes, some acknowledgement of what he's sure his face is betraying.

"House," Wilson says quietly, unwaveringly. "Is there something you want to say to me?"

His throat clenches; they're standing so close now he can feel Wilson's breath on his face and for a moment he's frozen, they are frozen. He takes a breath, swallowing, yanks a smirk onto his face far too late.

"Wear a rubber."

It's a lame ender by anybody's standards, apropos of nothing, but the need to get out of there is suffocating him, away from Wilson and his familiar voice and his gentle eyes filled with something that looks suddenly, horribly, like pity.

Back in his office he takes three pills on the trot, viciously dismisses every diagnostic suggestion, threatens Kutner with suspension and yells at Foreman for no particular reason. None of it has any effect whatsoever on the haze of dread that's clouding his mind, the awful numbing sense of loss, of something slipping away like sand through his fingers. His patient is dying, and he doesn't care.

Even when his cowed team solve the case (Miller-Fisher syndrome), he feels nothing. He goes home, drinks his way through the remainder of a bottle of Maker's Mark and even as he's drifting, pleasantly numb, he can't escape the pounding echo in his skull, the truth that he is losing Wilson, losinglosinglosing and this is only what he deserves, this is poetic justice.

He wakes up hours later and sees the empty bourbon bottle lying in several jagged pieces on the floor, blood still drying on his hand.


He stays late in his office the next night, long after everyone else has left he sits in the semi-darkness, tossing his ball half-heartedly against the wall.


He doesn't look up. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Wilson silhouetted in the doorway, briefcase in hand.

"Want to get some dinner?"

House pauses, rotates the ball anti-clockwise between his fingers.

"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" he asks flatly.


"Amber got other plans?"

"What? She--" Wilson frowns. "Why does it matter? Come on, I'm starving."

House looks at him, pretending to consider.

"Sorry, can't do it."

Wilson blinks. "Right, no, I can see you've got better things to do. In your office. Alone."

House stands abruptly, tossing the ball aside.

"Didn't say I had better plans. Just that I'm not having dinner with you." He hates this, hates what he's become, the petulant edge to his voice and the way he can't ever let anything be easy. But he's never felt less in control and this is all he can do, now, strike pre-emptively, push harder and more viciously before Wilson has the chance.

"What...what's going on here?" Wilson looks somewhere between hurt and bemused, and House wants to grab hold and wipe the innocence off his face because he knows damn well what's going on, has to know what he's doing.

"I'm not into playing second fiddle," he says, pushing past Wilson. "Find another backup plan."


He feels a hand on his shoulder, and stops. It's ridiculous the effect it has on him, this small, meaningless touch, knocking the breath out of him for a second as a ringing starts in his ears and he can't look back, can't do anything but keep walking.

"I don't need to tell you how unreasonable you're being, right?"

Cuddy catches up to him in the halfway the next day and he braces himself for the lecture.

"Probably not. You'll have to narrow it down though, I can be pretty unreasonable a lot of the time."

"Hard to imagine. I talked to Wilson."

"Gotta love locker room talk. So, did you find out who he's asking to the prom?"

She stops him mid-walk, one hand on his chest.

"I said that you weren't losing him. If you carry on like this, you just might prove me wrong."

He looks slowly down at her hand, then back up at her.

"Get off me."

She takes a step back, eyes narrowing as she registers his tone, and he's walking away before she has time to regroup. He doesn't need Cuddy or anybody else to tell him he's being unfair, irrational, selfish, immature or frankly pathetic. He knows all this. He can't bring himself to care very much.

This whole thing would be a whole lot easier if his leg wasn't screaming in protest every time he so much as thinks of moving; he's double-dosing on Vicodin and still it isn't enough, and all he can think about is how much Wilson would love this if he knew. Psychosomatic pain, again, mind and matter colliding. It'd be beautiful if it weren't so goddamn painful.

As far as the five stages of loss are concerned, he's steamrolled past denial and forgone bargaining altogether in favour of anger, despair, and even, now, acceptance. He's beginning to resign himself to this reality, the constant sickening dread churning his stomach, the unfamiliar sense of emptiness and the throbbing in his leg, referred pain like he's lost a limb. Nonetheless something is creeping in around the edges, something he can't call hope but can comfortably label as denial, and it's never been in his nature to go down without a dirty fight.

Amber's apartment (Amber and Wilson's, he reminds himself bitterly) is every bit as coldly chic and uninspired as he remembers. She answers the door wearing another of Wilson's shirts, a button-down he recognises immediately.

"What are you doing here?"

"Selling cookies." He pushes through the doorway and she stands aside resignedly, arms crossed. "Do you actually own any clothes of your own?"

"If I'd known you were coming, I'd have dressed for the occasion," she deadpans. "Why are you here?"

"Wilson not home?" he asks, ignoring her question.

Amber sighs. "He's at work. Which you know. What is this, like you marking your territory?"

"Well, I figured he probably wouldn't appreciate me peeing on him. You, on the other hand, are marking your territory by aggressively wearing his clothing around the house."

"Yep. Got me. I saw you coming and ran to change into this, just to prove a point."

Looking around the apartment he can't see much that's changed since his last visit; there's no semblance of Wilson anywhere, none of his possessions scattered in the living room, no familiar posters on the wall or ridiculously specialised kitchenware on the countertop. Something about that makes him happier than it should.

"So, what's it going to be today?" Amber asks, leaning against the kitchen island in a poor attempt at nonchalance. "You're already bullied, bribed, I'm guessing blackmail's the next logical step? You going to snoop into my past, dig up some nasty little secret and threaten to expose me unless I ditch him?"

"Oh, I'm sure there's a goldmine of dirt worth digging. But no," House shrugs. "No, I just figured it was only right for you to know a few things, since you guys seem to be settling in for the long haul."

She raises an expectant eyebrow. "Go ahead. There's not a whole lot he hasn't told me. I know about the marriages, and that he cheated, a lot. I know he slept with a patient. I know you've been friends for years, I know he took care of you after your infarction and he's been taking care of you pretty much ever since. I know you were the main reason his marriages failed."

House narrows his eyes. "There's no way he told you that."

"I extrapolated."


"And I know you think you're always going to come first for him."

He smiles then, almost laughs as he raises his eyebrows in mock defeat.

"Well, clearly this was a waste of time. I mean hell, he obviously trusts you enough to tell you pretty much everything." He pauses. "I guess he told you about the time he gave up his job for me. Both times."

Her gaze is steely but there's a flicker in her eyes, betraying her surprise.

"Yeah," he continues, sighing as though lost in reminiscence, "I've got a habit of pissing off authority figures. The wrong people. And Wilson always gets caught up in the crossfire, always has to fight. What did you think about him lying to the cops for me? They took his car, his money, his medical license...still, he wouldn't let up. He wouldn't."

He has to stop for a moment then, the memory of Tritter bringing a cold weight to his chest even now. He's not enjoying this half as much as he'd hoped, reiterating yet again all the things he's losing, the things he never deserved.

"You're pathetic," Amber says, visibly shaken. "All the times he's put his ass on the line for you, it's all just ammunition as far as you're concerned. Points on a scoreboard. Those things...only you could use that against him."

"Against you," he corrects. "He would have gone to jail for me."

The words hang in the air between them and he swallows, something hard forming for a moment in his throat. He would have gone to jail.

Amber seems to struggle with herself, torn between the desire to know more and not wanting to give him the satisfaction of asking.

"No wonder you're so afraid to let him go," she says at last. His eyes level hers, laying down a silent challenge, daring her to compete, daring her to fight him and she looks back, defiant but a little less sure of herself. "I'm not leaving him."

House clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms as he resists the temptation to explode, to scream in her face that this is all wrong and she doesn't understand, can never understand what this is costing him, what Wilson is to him. Instead he pops the lid on his Vicodin bottle and tips one slowly, deliberately into his mouth.

"Why?" he asks at last, struggling to keep his voice level. "Why him? Why not just...go and find yourself some other poor unsuspecting sucker to leech off, somebody without all the baggage, the--"

"You may not have realised this," she interrupts quietly, "but guys like Wilson aren't exactly a dime a dozen. He's pretty special."

"I know." Better than you ever will.

She regards him in silence for a minute, her expression unreadable.

"Close the door on your way out," she says at last, turning her back on him and retreating into the living room.


He doesn't remember when the idea comes to him. There's nothing logical about it, nothing terribly calculated, but the fact of Wilson and Amber's three-month anniversary looms large for days until he's beyond the point of rational thought. He finds out from Wilson's secretary that he's booked a "romantic getaway" for the weekend, first-class tickets to Long Island, a suite in some pretentiously named hotel with ocean views.

At five o'clock on Friday, forty five minutes before their flight is due to leave, he pours a finger of Scotch and calls Wilson.


"I need you to come over."

"Now? This uh, this isn't the best time." He thinks he's being subtle. He'd told some barely convincing lie about a conference in Baltimore and House had played along, feigning disinterest as though the anniversary had passed him by altogether.

He modulates his voice a little, adds a slurring edge, the faintest hint of a tremor. "Wilson just...please."

He never pleads for anything, and for a moment he thinks he's gone too far, Wilson's seen through him.

"Okay, yeah. Of course. Give me twenty minutes."

As he hangs up he's already feeling like shit, Wilson's concerned tone ringing in his ears. Even for him this is low, but he's beyond caring now, beyond everything, beyond despair and acceptance and anger, even. The thought of Amber's face as she realises Wilson still puts him first, will always put him first when it comes down to it, is all he can think about, and maybe there's some wretched part of him that needs the reassurance too.

Wilson comes barrelling through the door minutes later, eyes wide and fearful.


His stomach twists with guilt but as Amber follows he pushes it aside, lets him face fall into an unruffled smile.

"House?" Wilson asks again, confused now and wary. "What--what's going on?"

"Hey guys," he greets, raising his hand in a mock wave.

"I thought you..." Wilson stares at him, hard. "What the hell is this?"

"It's exactly what I told you it was," Amber explodes. "James, he played you. He knew you'd come running, he's probably been planning this ever since he found out we were going away."

"You're going away?" House asks, feigning exaggerated innocence. "I had no idea. Special occasion, or--?"

"I thought something had happened," Wilson breathes. " wanted me to think something had happened." His eyes narrow, confusion turning to something else, something raw and hard. House looks away. There's nothing about this victory that isn't hollow; Amber's fury is not nearly as satisfying as he'd expected and all he can see is Wilson, his wounded gaze and the way he's stiffened, his jaw clenched in anger.

Wilson turns and walks out without another word, leaving a deafening silence in his wake.

"Congratulations," Amber murmurs. "Is this what you wanted? To make him miserable, again? To prove you still could?"

House is silent.

"You're more selfish than I ever was, you know that?"

"You don't deserve him." He's almost surprised to hear the words out loud, not really conscious of having spoken.

"Yeah, that makes two of us," she spits, turning on her heel and following Wilson out.

He doesn't move much after that. He drinks five sixseveneight more fingers of Scotch, watches game shows and entertainment news and late night movies without really watching any of it, and tries to think of anything but soft brown eyes hardened in accusation.

The weekend passes in much the same way, a semi-conscious blur of pills and booze and whatever crap's on TV when he surfaces, and though he calls Wilson more than once he's unsurprised each time it goes to voicemail. When Cuddy calls, late on Saturday night, it's more of a relief than he'd like to admit.



"Are you okay?"

He pauses. "Who's asking?"

"Uh, that would be me--"

"Did Wilson ask you to check up on me?"

Her silence tells him everything.

"He's worried about you. He's just about ready to kill you from what I could tell, but he still cares."

"Touching. Well, you can report back to Saint Jimmy that I'm just peachy."

"Yeah, you sound real balanced," she says dryly. "How much have you had to drink?"

"I'm a little surprised at your impartiality", he comments, ignoring her question. "After talking to Wilson I figured you'd be racing to give me a lecture on the errors of my ways."

She sighs. "What would be the point? Besides, I figure something's got to give. The whole situation's ready to blow up in your faces, at this point I'm just standing back and waiting for the dust to clear."

He doesn't tell her he's pretty sure something already has given. Maybe this is it, finally he's pushed too far, pushed this till it breaks.

At work on Monday he corners Wilson on the way to his office.

"So. Good weekend?"

Wilson looks at him for a moment, then turns away, keeps walking. Undeterred, House follows. He's pretty sure he can't dig himself in any deeper at this point and even now, when Wilson can't look at him and there's a distance between them like never before, still there's something he needs here, some comfort in the sheer fact of Wilson's presence that he won't find anywhere else.

"Did you take that trip in the end?" he asks, his tone absurdly light. "Anniversary and all, fancy hotel, walks on the beach..."

Still Wilson keeps walking, his face a mask.

"I figure you guys had a lot to talk about. You and Amber," he clarifies, as if it's necessary. They've reached Wilson's office now, and House follows him in.

"Or I don't know," he shrugs, determined to provoke a response, any response, "maybe your relationship isn't all that much about talking." He flops down onto the couch as Wilson stands stiffly at his desk, rummaging through papers with no clear objective besides ignoring House. "That's cool too. Always had her pegged as a screamer."

Finally Wilson turns, and he couldn't look more weary, more resigned.

"What do you want from me, House?" he asks, raising his hands in surrender. House doesn't answer. He can't. He can say anything at this point, anything except everything that matters.

"I mean, you want Amber gone, that much I get. But why? Why does it suddenly bother you so much that I'm in a relationship again, finally? You've known me through three marriages, a few ill-advised affairs, now suddenly you're turning into Glenn Close at the first hint of something serious?"

"Things change."

Wilson rolls his eyes. "Yeah, things change. Great. What's changed? What? I - I've spent way more time than is remotely healthy trying to figure it out and I don't get it. I don't."

"You can do better," House says blithely, a hundred other words sticking in his throat. He's staring at Wilson, willing him to hear something different, to see everything that surely, surely has to be obvious, has to be written all over his face.

Or not. Wilson turns away again, his head dropping into his hands.

"House," he says, voice low and dangerously level. "Get out."

He doesn't close the door behind him.


That night, thirteen hours after Wilson kicks him out for what just might be the last time, he sleeps with Cuddy. Though they both know exactly what it means and more importantly what it doesn't, they make a damn good go of pretending otherwise at first. He shows up all downcast eyes and desperate, silent touches and when he kisses her she lets him, even kisses him back like this is it, like this is the answer to their problems, the ending they've been waiting for.

For a while he even manages to fool himself; as she moans and shudders beneath him it's almost easy, almost right, she's soft and warm and everything he should want, everything he's sure he used to want. He manages (almost) for the first time in weeks not to think of Wilson at all, until he's close to the edge and his mind begins to spin out of his control, flooding with all the things he's trying to avoid and he bites his lip as he comes, tasting blood, and says nobody's name at all.

He can feel her eyes on him afterwards, as he stares determinedly up at her off-white ceiling. When he finally looks back at her there's something unsettling in her gaze, a sense that she has understood something, seen something in him she should not have seen.

"So, what was that?" he asks bluntly, mostly to get that look off her face. "Moment of desperation? Pity screw for old times' sake?"

"Are those my only options?" Cuddy answers calmly, not rising. "You came here."

"Well, yeah," he smirks, widening his eyes for effect, "I didn't expect it to go this well."

She doesn't reply right away, lets the full crude impact of his words sink in. "Nice. I think I finally get it. This thing with Wilson - you're a lot more predictable than you'd like to think, House. You're acerbic all the time but you only get callous for no reason when you think you've got something to prove, or something to hide."

He looks sharply at her, the use of Wilson's name disquieting him even further; her eyes are boring right through him and the worst part of it all is the softness there, the compassion. The pity. He turns his back on her, reaching for the Vicodin bottle in his coat pocket. Prays she'll let it drop.

"Don't worry. I'm not about to tell him."

His hand freezes in mid-air. She turns out the light, settles into the covers, doesn't say any more. He lies in the dark for hours, not sleeping, trying not to think.

He leaves Cuddy's house before dawn, and as he slips into his shirt and leaves her snoring lightly it strikes him how familiar this seems, not routine but somehow predictable, even mundane. This is not the first time between them and though it's been years it changes nothing, later in the hospital they will be the same as they ever were and it's good to know, he supposes, that some things are still permanent.

He gets back to his apartment to find Amber sitting on the steps.

"You know, street corner's probably a better bet. Somewhere downtown, maybe near the bus depot."

"You ought to know," she retorts, standing up and brushing dust off her jeans. "Your bike was gone. Figured you had to come home sooner or later."

"Right. I'd invite you in, only...I have no desire to do that." He looks around for no particular reason. "Wilson know you're here?"

"Do you love him?" she asks, bluntly.

He almost laughs then; she doesn't really seem to expect an answer and he figures she doesn't really need one. As he pushes past her she grabs his arm, forcing him to face her.

"You're not the only one who needs him."

Her voice is brittle and it sounds, oddly, like another question, like there's something she needs from him. Slowly, almost gently, he shakes her off, and she puts her head down in a jerky kind of nod as she turns to leave. He has a strange impulse to call after her, some kind of parting shot, but his mind is blank and all he can do is stare into the distance long after she's gone.

The next day he receives a FedEx package. Inside is Wilson's McGill sweatshirt, neatly folded with a note safety-pinned to the collar.

It'll fit you better.


He's somehow unsurprised when Wilson shows up at his door later that day, looking drained.

"I'm guessing this is down to you?"

House stands aside and lets him in, his mind racing.

"Amber left."

"As in...?"

"Left town, left me," Wilson clarifies flatly. His words hang in the air for a moment, silence ringing as House digests this. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

"I didn't, actually," House mumbles almost under his breath. It feels irrelevant.

Wilson shakes his head like he's giving up on something, crosses slowly to the couch and sits down, his movements oddly deliberate.

"She give a reason?"

"No. No, not exactly." His voice is strained, every word measured. "She didn't really need to. Congratulations."

He moves tentatively to the couch, sits beside Wilson.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?"

"What I wanted--" He swallows, his mouth dry. "Right." It's true, of course. This is victory. He doesn't feel much like celebrating.

"You'd better hope I'm right about this," Wilson murmurs, his expression unreadable, and before the words have time to sink in he's leant in and pressed his lips against House's.

House freezes; his heart in his throat, he can't move, can't breathe. Wilson leans back, looking beyond confused and sees his eyes, the desperation there, whatever it is that's written in agonizing lines across his face.


Wilson slips a careful hand around the nape of his neck, cradles his head, one thumb stroking along his jaw, and something shatters quietly inside him; he can breathe again, can clutch at fistfuls of Wilson's shirt and pull him close and crush their lips together like it's the last thing he's ever going to do. Wilson makes a sound in the back of his throat, raw and yielding as House kisses him fervently and he can't get close enough, his tongue pushes into Wilson's mouth and they're pressed together like this is the end, like the world is ending and they are all that remains, they are everything.

Once they break apart he can't stop shaking, his body no longer his own and he doesn't know what to do with this, this exquisite loss of control. Wilson seems to understand, pulls him in without speaking and House takes long, deep breaths against his shoulder, whispers jesuswilson into starched fabric as a hand strokes slowly through his hair. Even after his heart stops pounding in his ears and he can see straight again he doesn't move, draws the moment out for as long as he can.

"So," Wilson murmurs eventually, breaking the long silence, "that's what changed."

House laughs, an almost hysterical outlet of breath as he lifts his head.

"Took you long enough."

There's a part of him that wants to ask why now, what happened to precipitate the light bulb moment, but he doesn't want to question it, still barely able to absorb the fact that this is Wilson, this is them and this is real, this is the threshold of something. Maybe it was never really a change at all, they've both always known on some level and everything that's come before has somehow been leading up to this. Maybe.

Their gazes colliding, he leans in again and none of the reasons matter any more, after days and weeks of working overtime his mind is finally, gloriously blank. Wilson's breath is warm against his cheek, and everything else can wait.



Aw, shit, I totaly forgot there isn't any porn in that. Sorry, guys. Derp.

Doesn't even matter! That was brilliant! House was so perfectly written... it made my chest ache and as love goo filled my lungs and slowly suffocated me.

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There needs to be House/Lucas


It's terrifying.

Old news, but still very true.

Wilson/House rape fic provided by the good ole' folks at 4chan


Cuddy looked at Wilson in disbelief. She opened and closed her mouth a few times before Wilson led her to the couch in his office. She sank onto the cushions.

"How long," she asked. "How long do I have?"

"Wilson sat next to her and put a comforting hand on her knee. "Well, it's stage 4, so...not long. 2 months. 6, tops." He grabbed her hand and squeezed it. "I'm so sorry, Lisa."

Cuddy crumpled as the tears began to flow. She let her head fall onto Wilson's shoulder and was grateful for the half hug he gave her. "Will you do one thing for me?" Cuddy asked as she looked directly into Wilson's warm, brown eyes.

"Anything," he assured her.

Wilson didn't have to tell House that Cuddy was dying from pancreatic cancer. He didn't have to tell House that the cancer had spread from her pancreas to her lymphnodes to her liver. House wasn't an idiot, despite everyone around him tending to treat him like one. He put two and two together when he playfully slapped at Cuddy's hair as she walked past him in the clinic one day. He watched a lock of her dark curls fall to the floor. Cuddy went home early without saying a word to House. House made his stormy way to Wilson's office.

"How long has she been on chemo?" he asked as he burst through the door.

"I'm with a patient," Wilson said, indicating the middle-aged man sitting across from his desk.

"He can wait. Answer me."

Wilson tried not to let the annoyance creep into his voice as he said, "I'm busy. I'll talk to you when I'm done."

House thwacked Wilson's patient on the shin with his cane. "Get out."

The man looked horrified, but he gathered his things and left, muttering something about transferring to County General.

House slammed the door behind the man and immediately started yelling. "I can't believe you KEPT this from me! And don't tell me you didn't know!"

"She didn't want you to find out. At least not yet." Wilson scrubbed his hands across his face. "For some stupid reason, she still respects your opinion of her."

House scoffed. "What the hell did she think I'd do? Laugh at her? What?"

"Cuddy thought-" Wilson caught himself. "She just didn't want you to worry. That's all."

Limping menacingly towards Wilson's desk, House said, "You know, I'm tired of everyone walking on eggshells around me. Ever since I got out of Mayfield, everyone's been treating me like I'm some fragile child. The least I'd expect is for my best friend to tell me the truth, especially if it's about someone I care for."

Wilson faced away from House, but he made eye contact with him all the same. "You care for Cuddy?" he asked. The question seemed to take the wind out of House's sails, and he sat in the chair Wilson's patient had recently vacated.

"You know I do."

Wilson nodded.

"I noticed she'd started to lose weight about a month ago. I figured it was nothing. But when she started wearing extra concealer, I got suspicious."

"Why didn't you say anything, then?" Wilson asked. "You're usually the first one out the gate with some new theory about what makes a person's life screwed up." The words sounded harsher than Wilson intended, but he couldn't take them back. So he let them stand.

House bit his lower lip and averted his gaze. "I don't know, "he said quietly.

Wilson sighed and let the silence stretch between them for a moment. "A rabbi's meeting with Cuddy tomorrow evening. He's counselling her, helping her set her affairs in order, deal with Rachel. I knew Rabbi Bachman way back when I was a kid. He's a great guy. You wanna come? Cuddy actually mentioned the possibility of inviting you."

"Do I have to wear one of those ridiculous hats?"

Wilson smiled.

The next month went by way too quickly. Cuddy cut back on her hours at the hospital, and House's ducklings and former ducklings were intensely curious about what was going on. But he didn't tell them. Not even Foreman. He was sure they'd figure it out eventually, and he didn't want to be the one to tell it. He also didn't want to hurt Cuddy's feelings, and that's what scared House most of all.

He found himself hanging out in her office more often these days. And when she wasn't at the hospital, he was at her house, playing with Rachel and just watching Cuddy as she sat with a mug of tea. He felt the worst when she absent-mindedly toyed with the fringes on her headscarves. She wore a wig at work, but at home, she wore scarves. House couldn't stand it.

One day, as Rachel played out back with her Barbies, blissfully unaware of her mother's failing health, House pulled the paisley scarf off of Cuddy's bald head. They stood on the patio in full view of Cuddy's neighbors. The gasp of indignation didn't make it past Cuddy's lips because House leaned down and pressed his lips to hers. Before either of them could object to making out in front of a toddler, they'd engaged in a kind of desperate free-for-all, lips and hands everywhere.

They didn't hear the front door slam.

Cuddy's health suddenly took a turn for the worse. House and Wilson knew it was coming. They still hadn't told any of House's employees, so when a permanent replacement as dean of medicine was announced, Foreman was the first to demand the truth. They all gathered in House's office after the announcement.

"Leave of absence? Is that what they're calling it?" Foreman said sarcastically.

"I'd call it more of a 'leave of tits,'" House said. He glanced over at Wilson, who only rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest.

Cameron shook her head. "What I don't understand is why she didn't tell anyone. Surely she would have told you," she said, pointing to House. "Or at least you," she said, looking at Wilson.

"Maybe she didn't want to scare us," Wilson shrugged.

"Scare us about what, exactly?" Taub piped up.

"Cancer's a scary disease," Wilson said simply. 13 excused herself. House figured this was all hitting a little close to home for her. He might have done something comforting, but he didn't want to push his new-found humanity.

"Does anyone know anything about this new guy?" Chase asked. "He looks pretty old."

House sighed. "He was a great cardiologist in his day. Back when heart transplants were done by candlelight and everyone died from infection."

"I just can't believe it," Foreman whispered. "What are the odds of her getting pancreatic cancer with absolutely no family history of the disease?" He looked at Wilson for an answer. Wilson shook his head.

"Sometimes cancer just spontaneously occurs. Sometimes its genesis can be found in an environmental source. But at this point, it's completely useless to speculate on how she got cancer. She's dealing with it, and I think it would be best if we all did the same." Wilson added, "I'm sure that's what she wants."

Suddenly, Foreman's and Taub's beepers went off. They left to find 13 so they could tend to their seizing patient. Chase and Cameron left, as well. Alone in the office, House turned to Wilson.

"Sounded like a load of bullshit you just fed to Foreman."

Wilson smiled. "He's not an oncologist, and Cuddy told us. Not him."

Cuddy lived nearly a whole month after giving Wilson permission to adopt Rachel. He was the closest thing Rachel had to a father, and House was surprisingly good with her, too. Cuddy's last words were to Wilson.

"Thank you," she said.

Wilson's and House's lives were slowly getting back to normal. As normal as two guys raising a preschooler could be. House still felt a tug of sadness about Cuddy's death, but he wasn't torn up about it like he had been when it just happened. Wilson helped him through the worst parts of the depression. House was thankful.

So it came as a complete shock when he found the papers in Wilson's desk. The bottoms of the pages were frayed like they'd been put into a shredder. The rest of the papers were intact, though, so obviously the person shredding the documents had thought better of the idea. One word lept out to House's attention: radon.

A few minutes later, Wilson entered his office and hung up his coat. He looked suspiciously at House, who was seated behind his desk with a stack of papers in front of him. When Wilson saw the frayed edges of the papers, he knew.

"That's what you get for snooping," Wilson said softly. He grabbed the papers away from House. "What? Nothing to say? No, 'Wilson, how could you?' No, 'You evil bastard?'"

House stared dumbly at him. "You gave her cancer. You injected her with *radon* for God's sake."

"She thought they were vitamins," Wilson said plainly.

"You killed her!"

"You loved her." Wilson tossed the papers into his wastebasket. "It was really getting on my nerves."

House couldn't believe what he was hearing. He tried to stand up, but Wilson pushed him back down into the chair.

"Where are you going?"

"Wilson. Whatever you're about to do, don't."

"Don't do what? This?" Wilson's left fist connected squarely with House's nose. Blood spurted from the bruised and broken tissue, and House clutched his face with both hands. His cane fell to the floor.

Wilson picked it up. "You know what I don't appreciate? You hitting my patients with this damn cane." Wilson brought the cane down hard onto House's right shoulder and again onto the side of House's head. House tried once more to get to his feet, but since he was caneless and had both hands protecting his face, he only made it easier for Wilson to punch him in the stomach and knee him in the crotch. House toppled backwards, knocking over the chair.

"I love you too much to see you with that bitch," Wilson threw the cane far from House's reach and grabbed both of House's ankles.

"Wilson, STOP!" House cried. He kicked and connected with Wilson's jaw. Wilson fell back, but he grabbed House's ankles again. His nails dug into House's skin through the denim.

"I have to make sure you don't tell anyone. I've lost my practicing privileges once because of you. There won't be a second time."


Wilson knew exactly what House was doing. His ducklings must have been scheduled to return to the office soon. Wilson had to make this quick. With lightening speed, he crawled over the bucking House, undid his pants, and managed to flip House onto his stomach. House kicked even harder, but once Wilson had sat on his legs, his squirming was useless. Thankfully, House didn't wear his pants all that tight, so Wilson had no problem pulling House's pants down from behind.

The first howl was the most delicious, Wilson would later recall. He was hard from the moment he'd first punched his best friend in the face. He hadn't bothered to prepare House's ass in anyway for the reaming he was currently giving it. Blood and shit lubed House's asshole enough for Wilson. Wilson didn't like to brag, but he was impressed at how well House's ass took all 6 inches of his cock. Of course, House was still bucking and screaming--and crying, Wilson noted. Someone would notify security soon.

Wilson picked up the pace and leaned down closer to House. He put his mouth close enough to House's ear to make him shudder with an entirely different kind of pain. "I'm gonna come," Wilson said. "Is that okay with you?"

House said nothing. He bit down harder onto his tongue and let his tears fall into the carpet. He involuntarily stiffened when Wilson's orgasm hit, thick ropey spurts of semen mixing with the blood and shit that soiled them both.

"Will you tell?" Wilson hadn't pulled out yet, and from what House had heard from Wilson's ex-wives, he had the refractory period of a teenager.

House shook his head.

"I didn't hear you."

"No. I won't tell," House grunted.

"Good. Let's take the day off." Wilson sat up and reached for the phone on his desk. He told the new dean that House had taken ill and that he was going to take him home. A couple of days would be fine. The new dean called Wilson a fine, caring young man and gave him and House the rest of the week off.

"House?" Wilson asked. "How are you at blowjobs?"


I think I am scarred for life.




Brilliantly written.


Oh godddddddddddd. Can I tell you how much I love you? That was so, so perfect. Jesuss

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One of the best H/W fics I ever read (and re-read, many times) was called For Every Closed Door by starlingthefool
It's a House / Dead Like Me crossover and afterlife!fic, but even though I had never seen an episode of Dead like me, I didn't miss out on anything.
Basically, House dies. He is then chosen as a reaper and is given a new identity. He uses that identity to date Wilson. This author is amaazing. Her OC reapers are engaging, yet don't over shadow the main pairing.

BTW: this is Omar Epps (Dr. Foreman) naked, spoiler'd because it's IRL :D

aww that one is my favorite too! :D starlingthefool is awesome.

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I approve of this.

So, after watching today's episode I can't stop thinking about the potential of "House can't sleep and scoots off to Wilson's room"...
Oh, and let's not forget Wilson caught House masturbating on his couch today. This made me ridiculously happy. :D

Also, THIS.

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Out of curiosity, does House have a kink meme at all?

If there isn't, it's seriously lacking.

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I know the thread is strictly H/W, but is there any Taub related content in the fandom? Anon's weird crush is weird.

no, i second the taub crush.

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no idea sorry.

Also: wow. Everybody in the world should read this
I came like three times per chapter UNF
I love fourleggedfish so mother fucking hard now.

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so hot but SON OF A BITCH

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Even unfinished, that fic is still completely fappable :P


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;_; Don't remind me of him. His end was so goddamn awful.

So I don't suppose anyone else is watching and squeeing over the epic amounts of GAY in tonight's episode, are they?

(sage for lack of contribution, other than giddiness)


ohgod i DIED. unf


I'm still on Series 3!

I was trying to be vague and non-spoilery. That was the first ep of House I've watched since the season premiere--I really don't keep up in order. But rest assured, it WAS epic.

Ok, I'm going to ask this because I fail at the internets.

I suppose some people actually write drabblers and whatnot (really, anything) right after an episode, right? I mean, I just watched S06E11 and I can't find shit with spoilers of it. To be honest, I don't enjoy reading old H/W stuff very much, seen as their storyline changed so much since previous seasons. I feel like every episode changes their relationship a little bit, and I want to read things that work with the major events of episode 10 and, if possible, with the details of episode 11.

So what I guess I'm saying is that I never find any fics with spoilers of the latest episodes and it would be really awesome if anyone could point me the right direction. I'm pretty damn sure House fans are faster than that.

I know google and LJ are there for a reason, but I actually did try and fail. Thanks in advance.

Thank god. I thought I was the only one. I'm always hoping to see episode related drabbles, but am almost always disappointed.

It's quite possibly the reason why I crave a kink meme from this series, something similar to the Star Trek or Sherlock Holmes one would be awesome, I'm surprised there's hardly anything similar for House.

In the meantime, I'm reading 's stuff, mostly because it's rather vague at times when stuff happens and it's well written.

Just found this today:

I'll check it out, thanks.

You're awesome, but the lack of content is disturbing. Really, guys, one would think there would be so much House porn we'd all get sick of it (not really, no). I really can't understand that. People love this show and people love porn, AND the cast is hot. I just don't get it.

Check out
A hell of a lot of fics there. I suggest picking which ones to read based on how many comments they have.

Everyone needs to watch this, ASAP

oh god the ending of that episode is SO. CUTE.

Fic time!

This one is kinda long, and it takes a while to get to the porn, but it's the only one I have on hand at the moment.

The Big Blue
Author: triedunture
Words: 14,700
Pairing: H/W
Rating: NC17
Prompt: get_house_laid prompt 069. House/Wilson -- first time with a dildo.
Warnings: uh, sex toys? Possible spoilers for Half-Wit, Airborne, the end of season 3, and Alone. It's kind of like an alternate universe, but based on canon? Let's call it an alternate timeline.


The night before House left for Singapore, Wilson hefted a suitcase from the top shelf in the hall closet. A dozen hats and wire hangers came down with it, pelting Wilson's upturned face.

"House!" He covered his head to protect himself from the falling debris. When the pattering of items died down, he glared in House's direction. "You could have told me about the imminent landslide."

On the sofa, House clicked through channels and swung his sneakered feet onto the coffee table. "Didn't I? Oh, and pack a pair of my board shorts, will you? The hotel has a pool."

"I am not packing for you." Wilson dragged the empty suitcase through the living room and down the hall. "And you won't have time to swim. Cuddy wants you to actually attend this conference, remember?" he called over his shoulder.

"Don't remind me," House returned.

Wilson's cell phone vibrated at his hip, and he briefly thought about how great it was going to be when he upgraded to an iPhone in a few months. He flipped open his dinged-up Nokia and looked at the incoming number. "Hey, Cuddy," he greeted.

"Is he going to be ready?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'll make sure we're on time." Wilson glanced at his wristwatch, jerking his arm so the cuff of his shirt didn't obscure its face. "I'll swing by your place around 4:30?"

"God, how are you going to get House awake at that hour?"

Wilson peered back into the living room; House was watching a documentary on octopuses (octopi? Wilson wasn't sure) on Animal Planet. Apparently, they could squeeze themselves into tiny boxes if they wanted. "I think we're just going to stay up. He can sleep on the plane," Wilson said into his phone.

House flapped his hand in the air to show he'd overheard and agreed with this plan.

"Great. So I'll be the one dealing with his cheerful self," Cuddy drawled.

"Afraid so." Wilson laughed. "Get some sleep. We'll see you soon." Cuddy wished him a good night and he snapped his phone shut.

"If you don't pack for me," House shouted from the couch, "I might just forget to bring any underwear."

"And that's my problem how...?"

"I might also forget to pack deodorant." House tipped his head back to look at Wilson from upside-down eyes. "Think that'll make the wrong impression on Cuddy's conference buddies?"

Wilson threw his hands up in the air and went into House's bedroom to throw together some essentials.

After Wilson finished stuffing House's suitcase, they both ended up on the sofa, trying with valiant effort to stay awake until four in the morning. House nodded off somewhere around two, and Wilson allowed his own eyes to slip shut as well. His phone was set to ring at the right time; there was no harm in getting a few minutes' rest.

That was fine, until Wilson felt a warm tongue tracing his collarbone. His eyes cracked open to see House, brow furrowed in concentration, licking a delicate whorl against his skin. Startling blue eyes looked up: the rushing, dark waters of a cold riptide.

"Octopus cyanea," House whispered to him. "Though it can grow up to sixteen centimeters without even counting its arms, it can squeeze through a one-square inch hole."

Wilson frowned. "What? What are you talking about?"

"They call it the Big Blue." House licked his lips. "Except it can actually change color. Sometimes it's pink." His mouth descended slowly, slowly, oh so slowly...

Wilson shot straight up, violently awake on the sofa. House's head rested on his bicep, heavy and warm. In Wilson's pocket, his cell phone was vibrating itself to death. Wilson fumbled to silence it, finally stabbing the button with his thumb. He glanced down at House. The older man wasn't licking him, he was just drooling a little. The television was still flickering away on mute, and it cast weird shadows over the planes of House's face.

Wilson took a deep breath to calm his racing heart, his gaze on the ceiling. He resolved never to watch documentaries before sleep ever again.


After depositing House and Cuddy at the airport and dragging himself to the hospital, Wilson walked through his workday in a kind of sleep-deprived daze.

He swung by House's office at five only to find an empty desk, an empty chair, and an empty whiteboard in the adjacent conference room. He was almost startled. House wasn't there. Why couldn't Wilson remember that? It had slipped his mind half a dozen times already during the course of the day.

Well, it was the first time House had left town during the week in a long, long while. There had been that trip to Boston, the usual faking-brain-cancer trip that everyone embarks upon at least once in their lives, but that had covertly taken place on a weekend when Wilson had been busy with a crashing patient. Now, the entire end-of-workday routine had been disrupted. No House, no sarcasm-sparring on the way to the parking lot, no option to grab takeout or a six-pack, no Netflixed movies or TiVoed trash television. Wilson stood in the hall, letting nurses and patients flow around him, and stared into the darkened office.

What was he supposed to do with himself now, he wondered.


Instant pornography: one of the many upsides to hotel living. Other pluses included cleaning services, a constant supply of fresh towels, emergency mini-bar snacks, and in-house laundry. To be honest, Wilson preferred living in the Holiday Inn to living alone in a house or apartment.

When he'd lived with his wives, he'd had to take care of them. The women Wilson attracted tended not to be the best cooks or caretakers. Julie, at least, had been pretty decent at doing laundry, so Wilson had allowed her that domain. But she had been helpless when it came to simple repairs or periodic tidying. Wilson had been both wife and husband in those instances. Now, someone (invisible and indigent) was finally taking care of him. It felt nice, in a perverted sort of way.

But back to the pornography:

The selection wasn't the best, but Wilson couldn't complain. It was just a quick jerk after a long day; it wasn't Shakespeare. So he settled on some pretty vanilla Pay-Per-View: Taking it from Behind Trollops #8. He set the remote down on the nightstand after a few moments of evaluating the hard-gasping, nail-dragging action. The woman had beautiful cascades of dark hair. The man was lithe and blue-eyed. She said, "Oooooh." He said, "Urgh!" It would do.

After he was finished, Wilson said this to himself: it had happened to everyone, in the heat of the moment. It was like those weird sexual dreams. When you spend so much time around one person, he starts floating into your thoughts unbidden. That was normal. That was to be expected.

That was why he'd shouted House's name when the come flowed over his knuckles. Really. Very normal. No need to think too hard about it. It was just one of those things.

Wilson wiped himself with a tissue and went to sleep, resolved to think no more about it. Ever.

A few days later, Wilson was holding a seizing woman down on the clinic floor with all his might. Robin, the leggy beauty who had brought in the patient, flitted at the edge of his vision.

For the second time that week, Wilson cried out for House without remembering he wasn't there.


When it was all over, and the patient was cured, Wilson slumped at his desk and considered. He picked up the phone.

He couldn't help a glance at the clock on the wall while he listened to the phone ring on the other end of the line. House's plane wouldn't be landing for another two hours; he had plenty of time to get to the airport. He tapped the folded piece of paper, the one with the phone number scrawled on its face, against the lip of his desk. He was going to hang up. He was. After one more ring.

She picked up. "Hello?"

"Hi, Robin? This is," he paused, "Dr. Wilson, Fran's doctor? James."

"Oh." Was she annoyed or surprised? It was hard to tell with a tone like that. "Figure out what's wrong with her?"

"It was a toxin," Wilson said. "We caught it in time and she's gonna be fine."

"Wow." Robin laughed, a light tinkling sound, through the phone line. "That's great."

"Yeah, it is."

"I didn't think you really would. Call me, that is."

There was an awkward silence on Wilson's end of the line. "Uh, listen, I was just wondering if you were coming back in again to visit."

"I can meet you somewhere," she purred into the line, not missing a beat. "Wouldn't that be better? Get out of that stuffy old hospital?"

Wilson, chewing on his bottom lip, happened to glance at the picture frame on his desk. It was an old photo of him and House, where the both of them were spattered with paintball reds and yellows, hefting their guns with matching looks of mock-Rambo. It had been a gift from House after Divorce Number One. "To replace her picture," he had said in that half-caustic, half-serious tone of his. Wilson had ended up placing it on his desk after each subsequent divorce, and it had usurped his wedding photos of Lucy, Bonnie, and now Julie.

"Hello?" Robin drawled on the phone. "You still there, Dr. Wilson?"

"Uh..." This was ridiculous. This was pathetic. This was something House would do, call up a beautiful woman and pay her for sex. Wilson rubbed the back of his neck, his face twisted in a concerned frown. He had spent the whole day in House's shoes, leading the team through their latest mystery. But he wasn't House. He didn't want to turn into House. He just wanted...

"I'm sorry. I really just called to say that Fran might like the company," he finally blurted out.

"Hey, not a problem," she said smoothly. "Maybe some other time." And before Wilson could correct her, the line was dead.

Wilson sighed and put the phone back in its cradle. So much for that heart-of-gold cliche.


Wilson pulled the Volvo up to the international arrival gate of the Newark airport just as the figures of his two colleagues stepped out of the sliding doors.

"Holy shit," House moaned as he tossed himself into the passenger seat. His eyes were squeezed shut and his face was drawn. "I'm going to sleep for days."

"Didn't you get any rest on the flight?" Wilson asked. Outside the car, the skyhop closed the trunk lid and tapped twice on the bumper to signal that all the bags were stowed.

The back door slammed shut and Lisa Cuddy poked her head between the front seats to glare at Wilson. If anything, she looked even worse than House did. Her eye makeup was smeared into raccoon circles. Her lips were pale, and her hair was bunched into a hasty rat's nest on the top of her head.

"I don't want hear one more word about that goddamned flight. Ever. Okay?" she said in a hoarse voice.

Wilson glanced at House, but the older doctor was already snoring away, his cheek pressed up against the window.

"Okay. Fine. Forget I asked." Wilson put the Volvo in gear and carefully pulled out of the arrival zone.

He dropped Cuddy off and helped her lug her baggage into her foyer. Once the suitcases were beyond the threshold, though, she gave up, dropping them in a messy heap. "I'll unpack later," she mumbled. "I need a shower first. See you, Wilson."

And she wobbled up the stairs, her slingbacks dangling from her fingers. Wilson raised an eyebrow, but let himself out quietly. House was still asleep in the car. He slept the whole way home.

When Wilson pulled up the the curb on Baker, he killed the engine and turned to regard House. His mouth was hanging open just a bit, and his nose was whistling with every breath. Singapore must have been crazy, Wilson thought, but not as crazy as what had happened in House's absence, surely. He had been looking forward to telling him all about the case. Oh well. Another time.

Wilson reached over to shake House by the shoulder, but he ended up just resting his hand there, his pale fingers a stark contrast to House's yellow print shirt. He thought about taking him back to the hotel. (Why, he couldn't say. It would be just as difficult to get a sleepy, grumpy House up to his hotel room as it would be to get him up the steps and into the apartment. It was just one of those thoughts that seemed to be cropping up a lot lately.)

He finally snapped out of it and gave his friend a jostle. "Wake up. We're here."


Wilson dropped House's suitcase just inside his bedroom, grunting with the effort. "What the hell did you buy in Singapore?" he called over his shoulder. "A dozen bricks?"

There was no answer save the familiar flump of House falling back onto the couch cushions in the living room. Wilson padded over to find House draped over the sofa, his eyes shut, for all purposes dead to the world yet again.

"You just spent the last twelve hours in an airplane seat. Don't you want to lie down in bed?" Wilson perched his hands on his hips and looked down at House with an amused quirk growing on his lips.

"It's so far." House turned his head and groaned into the leather. "I traveled enough today."

"Here, I'll give you a hand." Wilson reached down and grasped House's bony wrist. He tugged. No dice. "A little forward motion, House. If you could."

House complied with only a few half-hearted grumbles. Wilson carefully steered them around the cane that had fallen to the carpet, then down the hall and into the bedroom. He propelled House into bed with a light push to the small of his back. House went down like a stone, face-first, limbs splayed to the four corners. Like a cartoon character.

Wilson shook his head at the sight. "At least take off your shoes," he admonished.

"Make me." The growl was muffled by a pillow, but House's peevishness came through loud and clear.

Wilson rolled his eyes skyward, but bent to the task of unlacing House's bright orange Nikes and pulling them off his feet. "So what the hell happened on the plane? Cuddy didn't get airsick or something, did she?"

House turned his head to speak properly. "You might say that. Get my socks too, will you?"

Wilson peeled them off with a minimum of fuss. "Would you like me to dress you in your suit of pajamas as well, Lord Gregory?" he retorted in a stuffy British accent.

"Oh my god, I would pay you a million dollars," House moaned.

Wilson snorted and carried House's shoes over to the closet, where he set them neatly in the jumbled row of sneakers. "Yeah, right." The socks got balled up and tossed in a nearby laundry basket, already overflowing with wrinkled button-downs and jeans.

"I'm serious." House rolled over onto his back, his eyes still squeezed shut. "These clothes stink of recycled air and vomit. And I'm way too tired to lift my arms right now."

"So she did get airsick?"

"Come on. Help a guy out." House thrashed his head back and forth on his pillow in impatience, ignoring Wilson's questions. "I should have some clean things in that top drawer." He pointed a barely helpful finger.

Wilson considered for a moment; House was acting awfully needy, even for him. Maybe it was just a product of being away from home for so many days, of having no one but Cuddy and room service for company, of being in a strange country where no one got his jokes and snide references to American pop culture. Unless, that is, House was well-versed in Singapore's pop culture. (Wilson wouldn't put it past him.)

"Top draaaaaawer," House keened, snapping Wilson from his thoughts.

He slid the drawer open to find one single pair of flannel lounge pants. Light blue, almost gray, and soft, very old and worn. Wilson shook them unfolded. They would have to do.

"Quit whining," he told House as he returned to the bed with the pajama bottoms. "I'm right here."

The bed dipped as Wilson placed one knee on it to lean over House and undo the buttons on his print shirt. It was so incredibly ugly, Wilson could only imagine it had been purchased from a tourist stand to annoy Cuddy; perhaps House had even worn it to some of the conference functions. The thought made Wilson smile.

"What's so funny?" House murmured. He was now watching Wilson through slitted eyes.

The offending tropical shirt and a black undershirt were shucked from House's tanned shoulders. (Guess he had gotten to the pool after all, Wilson mused.) "Just imagining that this print was what made Cuddy reach for the barf bag," he said.

House grunted at the jibe. Wilson tossed the shirts into the laundry basket and tapped House's belt buckle with a fingernail. "Let's go, sailor. Get 'em off."

"Do it yourself. You're already halfway there," House mumbled, his eyes drifting closed again. He pressed his face into the pillow, sighing tiredly, his naked chest rising and falling with his breaths.

"God, you're impossible." Wilson unclasped the leather belt and tore it free from the belt loops. It produced a satisfying whipping noise, but House was unmoved. "Okay, now you're seriously in charge of the pants. I'm not your mom," Wilson said, rolling the belt into a neat circle in his hands.

House fumbled with his fly, eyes closed, before shimmying out of his loose jeans. Wilson handed over the pajamas and turned to find a good place to stow the belt. He placed it on the top of the dresser next to a stack of books and DVDs while House pulled the flannels over his boxers.

"All right," Wilson said, looking around the room with a nod. "Well, see you tomorrow." He turned to leave, but House's long, nimble fingers closed around his wrist.

"Where you going?" House mumbled, now face down in his pillow. His voice was thready, like he could drift off at any moment.

"I'm going...home." Wilson patted House's arm with his free hand. "It's bedtime for all good doctors."

"Stay," House said.

Wilson paused. Gave a short laugh. "I'll see you tomorrow," he repeated. His eyes were softening, his forehead creasing in confusion.

House didn't say anything else, just tugged at Wilson's wrist until Wilson was pulled back to the bed. One knee on the covers, then the other. House's fingers still circling his wrist. Wilson toed his loafers off easily: twin thumps on the carpet.

"I'll stay for a little while," he conceded. "Just until you fall asleep."

House hummed, his eyes still squeezed shut, laid out on his stomach over the bedclothes. Wilson pulled a knitted afghan from the foot of the bed and draped it over House's bare back, arranging it over his long legs as well. It didn't quite reach his feet. House didn't seem to mind.

Wilson stretched out next to him in his dockers and pressed shirt, loosening the tie at his throat. He rested his head on a free pillow and looked over at House. His thin eyelids were already flickering in REM sleep, it looked like. His feet paddled against the sheets. Wilson smiled. House was dreaming like a puppy would.

Wilson meant to get up, grab his suit coat, and go back to the hotel. It wasn't even 10 o'clock yet, according to the small clock on House's bedside table. He had some files to look through before work tomorrow. But his eyes drifted shut, and before he knew it, Wilson was snoring right alongside House.

He dreamed:

He was floating in a pool, much like the one in his old high school. (He'd never joined the swim team, though his brothers had. He didn't like the idea of sweating in a pool of water and inhaling it again. All those bodies . . . it was an outbreak waiting to happen.)

But this is a dream, he reminded himself. Not high school.

He was naked in the water, and he tossed his head around, trying to find the steps so he could climb out and get his clothes. But whenever he tried swimming for the edge of the pool, it only got farther away. Wilson, exhausted, began drifting on his back. His wet hair stuck to his forehead.

Something brushed against his ankle.

Wilson jerked in the water, working it into a froth as he desperately tried to swim for a ladder. Something was surfacing, it was underneath him, it was hungry, and it was going to eat him alive.

Wilson woke up with a gasp. His shirt was damp with sweat. House's arms were somehow wrapped around his torso, and he was still sound asleep. His grip was incredibly strong, his fingers digging into Wilson's ribs. After some careful extrication, Wilson crawled off the bed and crept out of the apartment, like a one-night stand leaving before dawn.


"So what do you think all this means, James?" Dr. Pollingsworth, the overpaid and over-accredited psychiatrist, asked Wilson during his next weekly appointment. He hadn't told her about the dreams; he'd only told her about falling asleep next to House twice in one week. He had been trying to make a point about House's strange neediness, but of course Pollingsworth always brought it back to him.

Wilson shrugged. "It means I'm tired?" he tried, giving a short laugh,

Pollingsworth didn't even crack a smile. "I don't refer to your sleep. I refer to where you choose to do it. Have you always slept well in the presence of others? Does it make you feel safe, or does it make you feel wanted?"

"I don't think it's either of those things. This is normal. You know, this is the longest I've been single in, God, years. I'm more used to sleeping next to someone. Just takes a lot of getting used to." He picked at a stray thread on the visitor chair. "Bumps in the road," he mumbled lamely.

Pollingsworth eyed him over her notepad. She was a small woman with a wisp of blonde-white hair coalescing in a halo around her head, but she still managed an imposing stare. Wilson regrouped.

"It's not a big deal," he continued. "House and I have fallen asleep on the couch or in a car a bunch of times. It's just, I don't know. Normal."

"You keep using that word." Pollingsworth made a note on her paper. "What does 'normal' mean to you, James?"

"Well. It means normal. Nothing extraordinary. I mean, it's fine."

Chilly blue eyes peered over horn-rimmed glasses. "Do you feel 'fine,' James?"

Wilson fought the urge to shrug. He smiled instead. Pollingsworth hummed: not impressed, it seemed.

"I'm going to start you on a regimen of anti-depressants." She continued scribbling on her pad. "A very low dosage to start."

The gears clicked in Wilson's head. Hell, if he was going to be taking pills, he knew at least one other person in the world who should be taking them also. He cleared his throat.

"I don't think that's really necessary, do you?" Wilson queried innocently. "I mean, everything's nor—" He paused, wide-eyed, as if he just realized Pollingsworth's point. "Everything's fine," he said instead, gauging her sharply raised eyebrow.

"Maybe not such a low dosage," she murmured, and proceeded to write out the prescription. Wilson tried to look contrite as he took the slip of paper from her. But inside, he was chuckling with smug aplomb.


Unintended side effects of some prescription medications: vivid or nightmarish dreams. If the subject is already experiencing such symptoms, there is the chance they could be exacerbated. Or, alternatively, the pills can make sleep more peaceful for certain types of insomniacs. It's difficult to tell; if it's not one thing, it's another. You're either a sleeper or a dreamer.

Wilson dreamed:

Same thing. High school pool. Blue and cold. No clothes. Can't reach the edge, always stuck in the middle. Something's in there with him, something below the surface. It's a dark shadow, flitting back and forth beneath the lapping waves.

Wilson tries to swim, but he sinks like a stone. Water is flooding his mouth. He'll die, he knows he'll die. He opens his eyes and it's a blank world of slick, blue tile and burning chlorine. He'll die.

House is there. Except it isn't House. Except it is. (This is how fevered med-dreams work.)

House flows back and forth in front of him like a dolphin, like a fish. He's some sort of underwater creature: he has eight arms, like a Hindu god. He's draped in kelp. His leg is whole, and he has gills beneath his ears, little fluttering vents in his flesh. Wilson is clutching at his own throat, shouting silent-muffled cries into the water for help. House turns deep blue eyes on him. He swims to him and reaches out with one of his eight hands. He cups the back of Wilson's head, petting his seaweed-waving hair. A calming gesture.

Another hand goes around his shoulder, another on his chest, over his sternum. One arm curves around his waist, one hand touches his cheek, one fingertip is on his lips. There's one last free hand, and it skates over Wilson's stomach to wrap around his cock.

Wilson woke up hard. Frightened. Out of his mind.

He would only take a fraction of the original dosage. Not even a half. The rest had a better place to go.


"Why am I going there?" Wilson asked, turning to glare at House in the passenger seat. He had nearly managed to get back into a fitful sleep when House had called him up and demanded they drive to some secret location in the middle of the night. Not too strange for House, but Wilson was still disgruntled by it.

"It's vital to my newest case." House popped a cherry-red Dum-Dum from his mouth and twirled its white stick between two fingers. "Carter and Johnson think the patient has some unheard-of strain of syphilis. But I know—"

"Wait. That's not your case. That's . . . Carter and Johnson's case." A car honked at them from behind. With a muttered apology that the other driver would never hear, Wilson guided the Volvo through the intersection and turned into a parking lot as House had originally directed. On tall metal stilts high above their heads, a blinking neon sign proclaimed: The Blue Parrot.

"It was their case, until their treatment made the guy vomit two pints of oh-neg." House sucked on his lollipop again and unfastened his seatbelt. "Now Cuddy says it's all me," he growled around the candy.

Wilson shook his head. It had only been a few days since Foreman had left, followed by Chase and Cameron. House wasn't ready to go it alone, not yet. "You need your team."

"I need fifteen bucks for the cover." House got out of the car, then reached through the open window with an open palm. "Gimme."

Wilson exited the car as well, ignoring House's glare of impatience. "I'm coming in too. I want to be there when you get tossed out by a bouncer for swabbing the men's room."

"You're not coming in," House said, limping around the car. "Give me the cash."

"I am coming in." Wilson glanced at the innocuous bar across the crowded parking lot. Some chipped paint, some foggy windows, but it wasn't anything too bad. "So this is where the patient works?"

"Worked. He got fired when his hands were shaking too hard to pour drinks." House held up a single finger as Wilson opened his mouth to reply. "It is not syphilis. And you are not coming in."

"Why don't you want me to go inside with you?" Wilson cried, tossing his hands in the air. "What's the point of me driving us here if you won't let me—"

"Hey, I'm not gonna stop you. You're going to stop yourself." House tipped his chin at something over Wilson's shoulder, and Wilson turned to see two younger men walking hand-in-hand toward the bar's front door. The pair eyed them silently as they passed. Wilson averted his gaze after a second.

"Fifteen," House repeated, holding out his hand again. "And some twenties for bribes."

Wilson flicked his eyes upward in an abbreviated prayer. "I'm not a complete moron. I'm going with you," he said resolutely. "If nothing else, I'd like to know my money's not being used for giant fishbowls of tropical drinks."

"What sort of cheapskate doesn't even get his date a daiquiri?" House scoffed and shrugged. "Suit yourself. Let's go." He spun on his cane and hobbled towards the entrance. Wilson followed at a slower pace.

It turned out (Wilson quirked an eyebrow at House) there was no cover to enter the establishment. Part-bar, part-dance floor, part-billiard room, The Blue Parrot wasn't the seediest place Wilson had ever been. It did have an old-fashioned cigarette machine near the bathrooms, which rankled Wilson just a little. (Wasn't that illegal?) But other than that and the distinct absence of the fairer sex, the place seemed above-board. Even the few couples dancing were tame: bluesy '80s ballads were as crazy as it got.

House was already halfway across the room, limping cheerfully along. Wilson was glad to see the pills were working. He followed, making his way past the pool tables with muttered apologies as he dodged cues and men gesturing with their drinks.

"What are we looking for?" he asked when he got closer to House. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the music. House didn't seem to care for that tactic; he just spoke straight into Wilson's ear.

"If I knew exactly, then we wouldn't be here. We'd be prescribing a cure," House said. His breath was warm and sugar-scented against Wilson's neck. "Keep your eyes peeled."

They must have looked strangely out of place in the middle of the floor, because one of the patrons shimmied up to them and said, "Never seen you guys around. Do you live in the area?"

"Do you have any unexplained pains or difficulty breathing?" House shot back.

"Not really," the man answered slowly.

"Then buh-bye." And House was already storming right along towards the bar at the other end of the room.

"Sorry about him. He's just...sorry." Wilson held his hands up in embarrassed surrender and edged away. Once he was fully turned around, his apologetic smile fell to a worried wince. House had approached a large decorative bird cage that stood guard over the top shelf, home to the bar's namesake, apparently. Well, the parrot was actually green instead of blue, but that didn't stop it from squawking at House's invasion like it owned the place.

A lot of conversations had stopped so that everyone could stare. Even the bartender, who had been shouting out last call, was frozen in place.

"House, what are you doing?" Wilson hiss-shouted over the music.

"Knitting a sweater. What do you think I'm doing?" House unlatched the cage door and reached his hand inside. "I need to look at Polly here."

"Can I help you?" the bartender called to them from behind the safety of some stacks of glasses.

"Have you been vomiting or experiencing blurred vision?" House snapped.

"Uh, no."

"Then, nope. Don't need your help." House's palm closed around the parrot's shiny beak, and the bird flapped its wings and ricocheted around the cage like a thing possessed.

"House! Don't hurt it!" Wilson cried, grabbing the thin metal bars to keep the cage from swinging free of its stand.

"I'm not going to—"

"I have to ask you to leave," the bartender said in a stern voice, lifting up the hinged portion of the counter. Wilson noted he was very broad-shouldered, and he was about to make a sincere apology to him (as per his policy of not being beaten up on a Wednesday night) when House interrupted with an "Aha!"

"Aha what?" Wilson demanded, still clutching the cage.

"Aha: feather mites." House's fingers parted the soft green plumage at the back of the parrot's neck, revealing tiny brown specks that moved and jumped when disturbed. "This little fella is a true exotic. Very rare, very illegal, and very covered in parasites. Parasites that our patient is incredibly allergic to."

"Okay, now you guys are gonna have to go!" The bartender was actually rolling up his sleeves. Wilson wondered briefly when he had signed up as an extra in a 1940s gangster film.

"Oh, really?" House sneered. He turned back to the bird trapped in his palms. "Polly want a health code violation?"

"We're going to need to take the animal," Wilson said in his best authoritative voice. "It might be what's been making Mister..." He glanced at House.

House made a show of recalling. "Futch? Flitch?" He snapped his fingers and pointed in the air. "Finch."

"...Mr. Finch ill." Wilson registered the man's blank stare, so he clarified. "We're doctors."

The bartender was about to say something in return, but the bar's lights suddenly snapped on and the music stopped. Wilson blinked in the brightness. The bartender shrugged at him. "Whatever. It's closing time; if it's got bugs I don't need it here."

Wilson had to give up his light jacket to fling over the cage. "Now I understand why you wanted me to drive," he grumbled at House. "You just didn't want to get mites in your car."

"One of my better plans," House said. He limped slowly through the surging crowd toward the exit. Wilson followed, carrying the shrouded bird cage by its handle.

The patrons all spilled out into the parking lot at a steady trickle. Most of them didn't seem to be in any hurry to get to their vehicles; House weaved around the clumps of men chatting over cigarettes on the pavement. Wilson craned his neck to figure out where he'd parked.

A cop car was sitting in the lot as well. A uniformed officer was directing people to leave in an orderly fashion. Wilson caught sight of the female cop and groaned. "We can't go that way," he hissed at House, grabbing his elbow and pivoting them both around.

"How come?"

"That's the mother of one of my patients." Wilson jerked his head in her direction in what he hoped was a covert gesture. "Her son starts chemo on Monday. I can't let her see me here!"

House screwed his face up. "It's not like she's busting this place for crack or hookers. She's just doing DUI checks. Plus, maybe you haven't gotten the memo, but dudes doing it with dudes ain't a crime no more."

"Yeah, but she doesn't need to think that her son's doctor is going out every weeknight and picking up men at gay bars," Wilson snapped. He glanced back over his shoulder. "Oh god, she's coming this way. Just stand in front of me and—"

House was quick to act, as usual. Before Wilson could even finish, House grabbed him by his shoulders and whirled him around. Wilson found himself pressed against the brick facade of the building. The heavy bird cage slid the short distance to the ground, the metal handle slipping from his fingers. The bird within gave one surprised cry, but nothing else.

Wilson didn't even have time for that. House was already kissing him, looming over him, covering him with his own body. House's hands were pressed into the brick on either side of Wilson's head. The wooden curve of a cane handle brushed Wilson's temple; the thing was dangling from House's wrist. House's good leg insinuated itself between Wilson's knees. His lips pressed harder, his face tilted more to the left, and Wilson followed out of habit.

He kept his eyes wide open. House's were closed.

When House finally broke the strangely chaste kiss, he moved back and blinked his eyes open. He put his mouth right up to Wilson's ear and whispered, "She still there?"

He peeked past House's shoulder; Officer Dover was nowhere in sight.

"Yeah," Wilson said quietly. "She's still there."

"Okay." House dipped down again for another kiss. This time, Wilson did shut his eyes.


"...And that's pretty much how my week has been," Wilson said, slouching in the comfortable armchair in his shrink's office. "Just the daily grind. You know how it is."

Dr. Pollingsworth carefully removed her gold-rimmed eyeglasses and leaned over her notebook to stare at Wilson. "James," she said, "you just described the last six days in minute detail. Yet I didn't hear you say anything about your friend, House."

"House?" Wilson made a show of thinking. "Yeah, I guess I haven't seen much of him lately. He's been busy on this weird new case. Get this, I hear there was this parrot—"

"Pardon me," Pollingsworth interrupted, "but I get the impression that you are hiding something from me."

Wilson shifted in his seat. "Oh?"

She nodded in return. "I must remind you, James, that I am here to help you work through your issues. If you lie to me, you're only making things more difficult for yourself. What value do these sessions have for you if you don't feel you can be truthful?"

"I am being truthful." Wilson smiled. "And I do think these sessions have helped me. We've talked about Julie and Bonnie and—"

"And House." Pollingsworth replaced her glasses. "We've talked about him at great length. Except for today, when he seems suspiciously absent from your meandering narrative."

"If you want to talk about House," Wilson said with a shrug, "we can talk about House."

She was frostily silent for a good half-minute. Which is a long time in an hour-long appointment. "I fear you fall into patterns of behavior, James, that can be very destructive. We've discussed this, I know. But I want you to consider, seriously consider, going outside your comfort zone once in awhile. Do something unexpected for yourself. Try to break the cycle. Maybe then you will feel safe speaking to me about what's truly bothering you."

"Maybe I don't know what's truly bothering me," Wilson said, looking down at his hands and rubbing them together.

Pollingsworth placed the tip of her glass stem at the corner of her mouth. "I don't think that's true," she said. She glanced over at the clock on the wall. "Our time is up."


It was 8:15 on a Thursday night, and Wilson was in the kind of store that had black paint over the windows.

The girl behind the counter chewed noisily on her Slim Jim. "You need any help?" she asked, bright-eyed.

"Uh, no." Wilson shoved his hands in his pockets and regarded the massive display wall. This was worse than the electronics store. How did you know what to get? There were just too many options. Glow in the dark might be useful if he had the lights out. But maybe he should see what he was doing. Variable speeds sounded good, but maybe it was better to start out with something that didn't move around so much. Then there were the rabbits; those seemed too expensive and advanced.

Wilson leaned closer to peer at one particular package.

Was that...corn?

"You probably want silicone," the shop girl sing-songed. Wilson turned to watch her flip a page of PC magazine. "It's more hygienic."

"Okay," he answered slowly.

She glanced up at him with a shrug. "You look like a clean guy."

"Oh. Thank you?"

"Have you thought about size?" she asked.

"Um." Wilson turned back to the toys. Some of them were a foot long, or more. "Something smaller, maybe."

The girl bounced off of her stool and strolled over to the display. "The beginner ones are down on this end," she directed. "Is this for vaginal or anal play?"


"Or it could be both. Like, between washings, obviously. Double duty!" She laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world and smacked Wilson on the arm. "You know what I'm saying?"

Wilson frowned. "I think maybe I should just decide for myself."

The girl's bubble deflated. "Oh. I'm sorry. Thursdays are just so boring around here." She cast her eyes around the otherwise empty store. "I guess I'll leave you alone, then."

She trudged back to the counter, tugging on one long, braided pigtail, the picture of dejection. Wilson looked at the drop-panel ceiling and muttered a curse to himself. "It's anal," he finally said aloud. He shut his eyes in embarrassment. But there. He'd finally said it.

The clerk was back at his side in a snap. "Fantastic! We have a pretty awesome selection. Let me show you."

In moments, Wilson was being shown more molded plastic, silicone, and rubber than he'd ever wanted. The shop girl was waxing poetic on the merits of each, even going so far as to take them out of their boxes.

"See, silicone retains body heat, just like skin. Go ahead, feel," she insisted, thrusting a gigantic purple twisty cone at him.

Wilson looked scandalized.

She huffed. "This is the floor model. We wouldn't sell anything that isn't sterilized. Plus we include a complimentary set of batteries. Don't want to get home and realize you don't have any C's, am I right?" She twisted the base of the purple model, and it buzzed to life with a loud whir. "Whew! That'll wake the neighbors, huh?" she exclaimed.

"Something without a motor, I think." Wilson shouted over the noise. "Something simple?"

The girl silenced the vibrator with a frown. "Oh, okay. Let me see."

She reached out, her fingers skimming along the boxes and packages stacked on the display shelves. Wilson was watching her contemplate between two different blister-packs when he spied a model on the end of the row. It was simply called The Big Blue.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

"That's the one," he said, pointing. "I'll take it."



Here's the thing about inanimate objects: you can't take them on dates. You can't expect them to care about your childhood, or your high school years, or your thoughts on religion and politics. Inanimate objects will never understand you no matter how hard you try. They just sit there. Doing nothing.

Very similar to some people, Wilson thought. The fact of the matter was, he'd never felt comfortable using such an object in a sexual way. His first wife, Lucy, had owned a vibrator once upon a time; he could dimly recall that it had sat in the drawer of the nightstand, freaking him the hell out every time he opened it looking for a tissue. Lucy had agreed to stow it away in a box under the bed. "Emergency medical conference backup plan," she called it. "Although I sometimes wonder if I should promote it to first string."

Lucy had been kind of a bitch.


Wilson sat on the edge of his hotel bed, turning the plastic casing around and around in his hands. The brightly colored copy on the box, done in a snazzy oceanic theme with tidal waves and white-capped foam, proclaimed the following:

"Sassy and satisfying, The Big Blue (tm) boasts a realistic size and shape that will bring pleasure to the most discerning lover. The space-age silicone is soft and supple, yet firm. Can be used alone or with a harness. A true sense experience, sure to entice and delight!"

And then, in smaller type:

(For safety reasons, lubrication is recommended.)

From his experience in the ER rotation during his residency, Wilson knew that the warning could probably be bigger. The number of people that came through the doors of hospitals with things lodged in their orifices was staggering.PPTH, for example, had a device whose sole purpose was to punch holes in wine bottles that had been stuck in someone's ass or vagina. The suction, of course, made it impossible to remove the bottle by force, so the pressure had to be relieved before removal. Wilson knew this because he and the rest of the committee had approved the $800 purchase of said device. Its industry name was something like the TR-300, but the ER doctors simply called it the Whore Puncher.

Wilson looked up from the box. "This is a terrible idea," he muttered to himself. "A terrible, horrible idea."

He placed the box on the side table and got up to pace. He folded his hands behind his back and spoke aloud to the empty room; another product of living alone: talking to yourself to fill the quiet.

"Okay, I'm a doctor. I know what I'm doing. I'm not going to end up in the ER with this stuck in my ass." He turned on his heel, pivoting around to pace in the opposite direction. "But why the hell am I doing this? Because my shrink thinks I need to change my life around? Do I really believe palpating my prostate is going to do that?" He turned around again, walking faster. "She thinks I need more change, but I honestly don't know if I can take any more. For Christ's sake, House is kissing me and dragging me into bed with him."

Another turn. "Except Pollingsworth doesn't know about any of that because you wouldn't tell her."

Spinning around again. "She'd have me committed in a second. Just what you need, Jimmy: a snug jacket that ties in the back."

To the left: "I'm not crazy."

To the right: "I am if I want House."

Wilson stopped pacing in the middle of the room, his head pounding. He went to the picture window and leaned on the writing desk, gazing through the crack in the curtains at the dark parking lot below. This is what it all came down to, really: it wasn't the idea of putting some toy inside himself that bothered Wilson. It was the idea of putting that toy inside himself and imagining it was House.

"Bothered" in both senses of the word.

Wilson sighed and reached for his briefcase. In it, he found the unopened tube of medical grade lubricant (ML-6700, the label read, but the ER guys called it Slip N' Slide). He had taken it from the supply room that afternoon, just slid it into his lab coat pocket as nonchalant as can be. Of course he wanted to do this; he'd already planned for it.

The tiniest of murmurs from the back of his mind said, "This is only a poor substitute for the real thing, Jimmy."

And a barely perceptible whisper said, "Take what you can get."

Wilson took off his pants.

He turned down the covers and lay down on the bed. He opened the Big Blue's packaging and slid the small toy out, examining it closely. Just smooth aqua-colored silicon. Slightly curved at the tip. "For maximum prostate pleasure," the shop girl had confided to him.

Wilson placed the dildo on the bed, tucking it under his thigh to warm it up. He unbuttoned his shirt, cursing his trembling fingers. This wasn't any more crazy than jerking off; why was he so nervous? Also, why was he so hard?

"Idiot," he muttered down his torso at his dick. It didn't defend itself.

He slicked up his fingers with the lube and gave it a minute to warm up between his rubbing palms. Then he reached down and slipped a digit behind his balls, up into that dark space. That wasn't so abnormal; he'd be a complete hypocrite if he hadn't been getting his prostate checked since his fortieth birthday. It wasn't scary. It just wasn't all that pleasant.

"You're still thinking like a doctor," he whispered to himself. "Start thinking like House."

House wouldn't be so wrapped up in the mechanics of this, would he? He'd just be laying back and enjoying the sensations, maybe even wriggling around to get some more contact. Or, if House's fingers were the ones feeling him right now, they'd be mischievous. Causing trouble, teasing back and forth, in and out.

Wilson closed his eyes and moaned. His finger dug in deeper. He felt his cock leak a solid drop of fluid on his stomach.

House would avoid the prostate, Wilson was sure. He'd do it with a grin on his face, an innocently raised eyebrow. "What is it, Jimmy?" he'd say. "Ready for me already?"

Wilson gritted his teeth and inserted another finger. He felt slow and light, like he was no longer under the rule of gravity. His blood hummed under his skin. His mouth opened in a gasp and closed in a silent formation of House's name.

His right hand flailed out, reaching under his leg for the bright blue toy. It was skin-warm, soft and supple just like the package promised. Wilson removed his thrusting fingers long enough to cover it in lube. If only House could see him now, Wilson mused.

Would he laugh? Screw up his face in disgust? Just tap his cane against the floor and raise an eyebrow?

Wilson lowered the dildo between his legs, spreading them apart on the cream sheets. Would it be too pathetic to believe House would go slowly if he were here? Wilson tried to convince himself it wasn't. He pushed the toy in gently at first, then as relaxing his muscles became easier, larger distances were filled. As it went deeper, Wilson's eyes widened. He could feel it approaching that sacred space, that point in a man's body that nature had included in the blueprints as a sort of hidden bonus. Though Wilson had never been touched there in anything but scientific inquiry, his prostate was obviously a Very. Cool. Thing.

His mouth fell open against his will. His breaths were coming hard and fast. He blinked rapidly.

Closer. Closer... There. The curved tip of the toy reached its destination, and Wilson briefly believed he was already coming. But it was a trick of the nerves. A really fantastic trick.

Why had he been worried about this, he wondered as he pumped the dildo in and out of himself, his head thrashing on the pillow. It was fantastic, worth every stupid cent. He deserved it, to feel like this, even for just a moment, even if it was just a fantasy.

House would growl: "You need to feel me inside you, you little slut."

"Yes," Wilson gasped to the empty air.

"You know what's funny though?" House would lean down to hiss in his ear, "I'm already inside you, Wilson. All the fucking time."

"Yes!" Wilson cried. He gave his cock two rough jerks with his right hand and orgasmed harder than he ever had, so hard it actually hurt.

After he cleaned himself up, he fell asleep and didn't dream of anything at all.


At the hospital the next day, Wilson walked the halls with a cheerful whistle and a bounce in his step. He waved to a janitor that he knew vaguely and wished him a good morning in his beginner's Spanish. Lou responded with a smile. An elderly woman stopped him to ask for directions to her husband's room, and Wilson escorted her himself, chatting about the weather. A young girl in the waiting area cursed at her dead cellphone; Wilson lent her his new iPhone to make the call, and they discussed the various merits of open-source apps.

It was just one of those strangely good days.

Of course, House sniffed out 'strange' like a pig did truffles, and he came barreling into Wilson's office that afternoon with suspicions rampant in his eyes. "What the hell is the matter with you?" he accused.

Wilson blinked pleasantly. "I heard your new guitar," he said instead of answering the question. "Sounds good. Are you taking requests?"

"Cuddy is breathing down my neck to hire a new team, which I don't need," House continued, "and you're floating around with that stupid grin on your face. Have you made a deal with her or something? Is it two against one, or can I actually rely on you to watch my back?"

Wilson put down his iPhone, which he had been playing around with in between consults, and cocked his head. "Why don't you just make it easier on everyone, House? Hire some people. Get some fresh blood around here. Change can be a great thing, you know."

"I don't need a new team," House spat. "I worked out that Parrot Guy case, didn't I?"

Wilson shrugged. "What's the worst that can happen if you get a new team? They don't work out and you fire them."

House glared at him for a long moment, as if looking right into his body to watch the moving parts.

"What is it?" Wilson asked.

"I need to pee." House stomped out the door.

Wilson followed quietly and poked his head into the hallway. He watched House's lean frame hobble around the corner towards the men's room. Through the glass walls of House's office, if Wilson craned his neck to look, the new guitar was sitting in plain sight.

Wilson's eyes lit up with something akin to maniacal glee. Slip into House's office. Nab the Flying V. Scurry downstairs into the basement locker room, which was only accessible by the stairs. Lock it up in his old locker, which he hadn't used since the days of after-work basketball games with House. Run back upstairs to sit innocently at his desk before House was out of the restroom.

Oh yeah. Today was a good day.


It was the first time Dr. Pollingsworth had actually smiled at him. Wilson could see why it was a rare event; she looked a little like a shark.

"So," she said, all toothy, "I can already tell it worked. You've taken my advice and made some changes in your attitude. You look so relaxed."

Wilson lounged in his armchair, slapping his hands against his knees in a thoughtful manner. His eyes roved the ceiling and a smile curled on his lips. "Oh yeah. I feel great."

"So what happened?" The older woman leaned forward. Her pen wavered above the notepad eagerly.

Wilson grinned brightly. "I took up the guitar."


It was nearly midnight when Wilson was interrupted by an insistent beeping. His pager, on the desk, chiming at him nonstop. Wilson lurched out of bed to silence it and peer at the small screen. Shit. He needed to get to the hospital. He glanced down at himself: naked, his cock stiff and hard. He'd been about to take Big Blue out for a round of fun before going to bed. God, the last thing he wanted to do was go in to work in this state. But a page was a page.

Pausing to quickly toss the sex toy into its small holding box and shove it under the bed, Wilson then rushed into the bathroom and ran a toothbrush over his teeth. His hair could wait (and he couldn't even believe he'd just thought that). An old pair of sweat pants and a hoodie, plus some old sneakers, and Wilson was out the door, grabbing his pager, phone, wallet, and keys in a whirl of haste. His arousal had fled, leaving him cranky and tired.

He drove through the quiet Princeton streets, fighting back yawns all the while. His mind raced to figure out which patient of his might be having any complications, but none sprung to mind. He hoped to god it wasn't Officer Dover's boy; the kid was supposed to make a full recovery. Shit, please don't let it be the Dover boy, he prayed.

Wilson pulled into the nearest parking space to the hospital entrance and dragged himself into the building. He made his way to the on-call desk and found Chris, the late-night nurse, on duty.

"I got a page," he mumbled, reaching for his pager where it was clipped to his waistband.

"No you didn't," said Chris, not even looking up from his paperwork.

"They called a code." Wilson showed him the pager's screen.

Chris shrugged. "You got a page, but not from us."

Wilson could feel his teeth grinding together. House. He turned on his heel and jogged back towards the exit.

"Good night, Dr. Wilson!" Chris called after him with a faint bite of sarcasm. But Wilson was already out the door.

He gunned his Volvo's engine while dialing his cell phone with his other hand. He was already well on the road when House's bright voice answered blithely. "Did you ever see Raid on Entebbe?"

"Did you ever see that other classic?" Wilson spat into his phone. "I think it was called Don't Ransack Your Friend's Place Because if You Do, You're a Dick."

"Hmm. Didn't that get beat out for the Oscar by I Might Be a Dick, But You're a Bigger One for Stealing My Guitar?" Wilson could hear something smashing on House's end of the line.

"House! Stop breaking things!" Wilson cried, taking a hard right at the light. He pressed the pedal to the floor; if House had just begun snooping around, then maybe he could get back before he found...It.

The familiar BOOP BOOP sound of the TiVo filtered through the phone. "What's Fuego del Amor, and why do you need—"

"Just stop for a second, House," Wilson cut in. "Do you really want to know where the guitar is?"

The noises of the TiVo ceased. "You going to talk? No more of this coy shit?"

Wilson twisted the wheel, pealing into the hotel parking lot and careening into a spot. He needed to buy some more time. "I don't know what you mean by 'coy.'" A calculated gamble; if he could just keep House riled and on the phone, then maybe he wouldn't keep looking around.

No dice. He heard the sound of drawers opening, their ball-bearings squealing in protest. House growled in the phone: "I'm sick of this game, Wilson. It's not cute, it's not witty, and it's definitely not going to teach me a lesson."

Wilson ran into the hotel and slammed into the stairwell. He took the steps two at a time, panting into his cell. "House, please, just stop!" He couldn't keep that edge of panic out of his voice. He swung himself around the corners, climbing up and up. Four more flights to go. "If this friendship has any sort of value to you, please stop going through my stuff." His words echoed in the stairwell's close quarters.

"Huh, that's funny," House sneered into his ear. "I was going to say the same thing to you. How is it hunky dory for James Wilson to pilfer and steal from his best buddy, but it's not okay for anyone else? What makes you think you're so entitled to me?"

Two more flights. "I don't think that. I just—"

"You just inject yourself into my life. This was between Cuddy and me. I didn't ask for your opinion." There was a thumping noise, perhaps a cane striking a cardboard box of some sort. A box under the bed. "And I sure as hell didn't ask to lose my new V."

Wilson reached the sixth floor and exited into the hallway, letting the heavy door bang shut behind him. He flew down the carpeted hall as fast as his feet would carry him. "I'll give it back!" he shouted into the phone. He reached the door and slid his key card in the slot. "Just don't—"

He pushed open the door, his phone still pressed to his ear. Across the room, House crouched beside the bed with his own cell still in his hand as well. An open box sat at House's feet. For a long moment, they were both silent.

Finally, House picked up the bright blue dildo and turned to face Wilson.

"Um. Huh?" he asked.

The door shut behind Wilson's back. Wilson, for his part, wished he could somehow not be here. Like a do-over in a video game. He slowly took his phone away from his ear and put it on the desk.

"What the hell?" House snapped his phone shut and pocketed it, then wiggled the phallic toy between his fingers like it was an oversized pencil. "Jimmy, you dog. You told me you weren't dating anyone. Who's the kinky gal?" He peered into the depths of the cardboard box, which Wilson knew also contained a semi-squeezed tube of lube and wet wipes.

A million lies piled up in Wilson's throat:

Her name is Mandy. She's getting her doctorate in linguistics. You know what they say about people who study tongues. Or:
I've been seeing an exotic dancer named Kayla. She's from Brazil. OR:
Lorna. I think that's her name. Or it might have been Sandra. It's so hard to tell, what with all the normal heterosexual sex I've been having.

But they all went unsaid. He just stood there, feeling his face getting hotter and redder.

House frowned. "Okaaaaaay," he drawled, and made a big show of putting the toy back in its box and wiping his hand on the carpet.

Wilson made a break for the bathroom. He didn't need to stick around to hear House mock him, snort at him, sneer or scoff at him. He kept his head down and kept moving.

Not fast enough. House somehow headed him off at the pass, a hand grabbing his elbow and whirling him back around.

"Say what you want," Wilson blurted out, his eyes still fixed on the ends of his shoes. "Make whatever grand joke you have saved up for an occasion like this. Just get it over with and let me go."

House slowly retracted his grasping hand, and it joined his right hand on the head of his cane. "I wasn't gonna say anything," he said.

"I'm sorry about the guitar," Wilson whispered. "I'll bring it back to your office tomorrow. Just...go." He turned to flee into the bathroom, where he could step into the warm spray of the shower and try to drown himself.

But House moved quickly for a cripple, stepping in front of the bathroom door to block his exit. "This guitar thing. It was really ballsy."

Wilson swallowed. He looked somewhere over House's shoulder.

"Some might call it daring, and that's not like you," House continued. "You were talking about change the other day. Is this what put that grin on your face?"

Twisting his head to the side, so he wouldn't even have to see House's shoulder, Wilson sighed. "House..."

From the corner of his eye, Wilson could sense House running a thumbnail above his eyebrow, a familiar gesture of unease. "Look," House said, "if you got yourself a boyfriend, that's great. I'm not going to give you shit for it."

Wilson slowly turned his head back to face House, but now the older man was the one avoiding eye contact.

"I mean, it was pretty obvious now that I think of it. It always feels like you're hiding something, Wilson; that's the best thing about you. I just thought," House pulled a face, an exaggerated wince, "that you'd tell me if anything, I don't know, life-altering ever happened to you."

"A boyfriend?" Wilson mumbled, brow creased in confusion.

House limped away towards the window, where he parted the curtains slightly with his cane. "Good red herring. I always thought it was too obvious to be true, you know. The hair, the clothes, the unashamed love of musical theater. But you throw me a curve ball once again." House's voice was trying for light and airy, but Wilson could hear an undercurrent of strangely cold anger. The cane was removed, and the curtains fell shut again.

"Sorry to end up so boring for you," Wilson snapped in return, "but you're wrong. I don't have a boyfriend."

House turned to scrunch up his face at Wilson. "Then who's the dildo for?"

Wilson placed his palms over his face and groaned into them. "You are such an idiot sometimes," he said, still muffled by his hands.

Though he refused to watch the dawning realization on House's face, Wilson heard it loud and clear. "Oh," followed by an "Oh!" House chuckled. "Weird how I just assumed..."

"Yeah, you just assumed I wasn't a completely pathetic loser. Now please go." For a third time, Wilson made a dash for the bathroom door. And for a third time, House blocked his way.

"Oh no. This I gotta see."

"What?" Wilson blinked up at him, his jaw slack.

"Goodie two-shoe Jimmy Wilson fucking himself with a plastic cock," House clarified. "This I gotta see."

"It's silicone," Wilson said automatically. He stood completely still.

"Potato, poe-tot-oh," House said, stepping closer, a sly grin on his lips.

Wilson gave a bubbling sort of laugh, a near-hysterical sound. "I'm not going to show you," he said.

House pursed his lips and gave a slight shrug, then moved as if to leave. But it was just a ruse; as soon as Wilson relaxed his guard, House dropped his cane to the floor and attacked him with a slightly lop-sided tackle. His arms went around Wilson's waist and they both fell to the carpeted floor. Air whooshed out of Wilson's lungs as his back hit the floor, doubly so when House's frame landed on top of him.

"House! What—" Wilson managed to gasp.

House grabbed the hem of Wilson's worn sweatshirt and wrenched it up and over his head and arms. "Get with the program, Wilson," he said with a cheerful raise of his eyebrows. He balled the hoodie in his hands and tossed it towards the bed. Wilson looked down his naked chest; House was now reaching down to tug Wilson's sneakers off his feet, bypassing the laces.

"Wait," Wilson croaked. "Don't."

House made a noise of disbelieving dismissal. It sounded like psssssh. Wilson's right New Balance was thrown into a corner, followed by the left.

"I'm serious! What— House, stop!" Wilson's voice went up an octave or three when House's fingers snatched at the waistband of Wilson's sweatpants. Wilson's own hands scrabbled to stop House, and they ended up with a sort of tug-of-wag over the drawstring.

House scowled down at him, but Wilson could detect the faint gleam of humor in his fevered blue eyes. Wilson was now regretting those small doses of antidepressants; apparently, they made House absolutely insane.

"Come on," House murmured into his ear. "You can drop the swooning southern belle act. I got you figured out."

"Oh do you?" Wilson retorted, trying to calm his heaving lungs. "What, pray tell, am I?"

"You're blind," House pronounced, still fighting for dominance of Wilson's sleepwear. Their hands were locked in a fierce grip and House jerked them away, pinning Wilson's wrists to the carpet on either side of his head. "If there's chick within Jimmy Wilson's grasp, then he gets her. I know. I've seen it in action. So the only reason you would sit around diddling yourself is because there's something out of your reach. Someone you can't have." House's voice dropped low and growly. "Someone you think you can't have."

Wilson swallowed and turned his head to rest his burning cheek on the rough carpet. His gaze traveled along the long stretching savanna of gray fibers. The cardboard box sat a few feet away, taunting him.

He didn't say anything.

"Is it me?" House asked.

Wilson shut his eyes. And he didn't say anything.

"I..." House sighed and lower his body a bit, his breath ghosting over Wilson's chest. "I want it to be me. Is it?"

Wilson's eyes snapped open and he looked up at House as if he'd been bitten by something. "What?"

House was the only man Wilson knew who could shrug with just a quirk of his lips. "If it's not me, that's fine. I get it. But if it is...Jesus, you're blind. I kissed you, didn't I? I damn near cuddled with you. Doesn't any of that register with you?"

Wilson blinked slowly. "I, I guess not."

House licked his lips. "Okay then." He glanced down at Wilson. "So it is me, right?"

Wilson laughed and rolled his eyes. "You've got to be joking." He met House's eyes and saw, briefly, a melting sadness. "Oh wow," Wilson whispered. "You seriously aren't sure? And you're going ahead with it anyway?"

House looked down and fiddled with Wilson's sweatpants' elastic.

"House," Wilson said, "of course it's you." He wiggled his hands where they were held down by House's. "Um, I'd do something sweet right now like pet your hair, but you're kind of keeping me immobile."

House grinned. "Pet my hair?"

"Or something."

With a flourish, House released Wilson's wrists and sat back, straddling Wilson's lap. "Do your worst, then."

Wilson sat up to, his face now inches from House's. His left hand rose, a little shakily, and cupped House's cheek. It felt strange, that painful prickle of stubble as House nuzzled into the touch. Wilson basked in that for a moment before sliding his hand down to House's neck, where he was able to pull him in for a kiss.

If kissing a woman takes finesse, Wilson mused, then kissing House took stamina and speed. The amount of energy the man poured into the simple press of lips was astonishing. And he changed pace constantly, one minute slow and sensuous, the next animalistic and hungry. It took all of Wilson's brainpower just to keep up with the erratic tilting of House's head and the darting of his warm tongue.

Wilson was completely prepared to continue practicing until he got it perfect, but after a few moments, House reared back with a strained hiss. His palm went to his right thigh and rubbed at the damaged muscles there.

"Sorry," Wilson said quickly. "Oh god, I'm sorry. Here." He eased House off his lap and back onto the floor, where he could stretch out fully. "Do you need...?"

House was already fishing a pill bottle from his jean pocket. "It'll be fine in a minute. But Wilson," he paused to swallow a couple Vicodin, "it's good that you bought that thing." He nodded toward nearby the cardboard box.

"What, the toy? Why?" Wilson asked, propping himself on an elbow next to House on the carpet.

House contorted his face in a squidge of embarrassment. "You know what I mean." He gestured to his lame leg. "The spirit is willing, yadda yadda yadda. I can't always do what I want to do."

"We don't have to—"

"We might not have to, but you should," House cut in. "I've been imagining this for too long; I'm not going to be happy with sitting around watching reruns tonight. I want to see you." He hoisted himself up into a sitting position with his hands behind him on the floor. "So show me how you play with your little toy, Wilson."

Wilson bit his lip and looked over at the nondescript box. House sounded serious. And this might be my only chance, Wilson thought. Take what you can get; change can be good; insert other positive affirmations here. "All right," he said finally. "Come on." He stood fluidly and offered House a hand. Together, they hobble-walked over to the bed. House flung himself onto the bed, which was still in disarray from Wilson's hasty dash to the hospital. Hanging half over the edge of the mattress, House rummaged in the box until he lifted the dildo high in the air in triumph.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he intoned in a deep announcer voice. "Tonight, James Wilson plays the blues." And he handed the toy over to Wilson as if it were a microphone.

Wilson rolled his eyes and joined House on the sheets. "Hand me the, erm," Wilson snapped his fingers in the direction of the tube of lubricant, which House also passed to him, but not without a raised eyebrow.

"Hanging out in supply closets, stocking up?" House asked. "Impressive."

"Well, you know. Saves both time and money." Wilson's fingers played with the waistband of his soft sweatpants. This was a barrier that he suddenly felt nervous about; even though there had been locker room showers between the two of them, this was different. This was sensual nudity, a non-utilitarian display of skin.

House must have sensed the hesitation, because he took it upon himself to start tugging the pants down over Wilson's hips. "I've known you forever," he said quietly. "You think I'm going to care about muscle tone or tan lines?"

"Maybe I'd feel better if you got naked too," Wilson suggested. The sweatpants were dragged down his knees and off his ankles. House tossed the article aside, and Wilson steeled himself for the close inspection of House's bright eyes. They passed over his frame, sweeping up legs, down arms, across the torso, lingering somewhat on a half-hard cock. How strange it is, Wilson thought, being naked in front of someone after being covered in clothes for so long. It was almost another plane of existence where his bare stomach, chest, and hips were allowed to be watched. It felt like something huge should happen, or the lights should go down, or music should start playing to signify that this was the different world where intimacy might be allowed to happen. But everything stayed pretty much the same while House looked him over. Finally, House met his gaze.

"I wouldn't want to upstage you," House said with a grin. Wilson smiled, looking down and fighting the blush on his face. God, like a schoolgirl, he thought. And yet he could hear House's own concerns about disrobing: the scar hung on him like an albatross.

"Okay," he finally answered, knowing. "But I expect a private show in the very near future."

"Deal." House tossed the lubricant onto Wilson's stomach. "Now get going."

As Wilson slicked up the fingers of his left hand, he wondered if he had ever done this before, performed for someone like this. His past wives and girlfriends hadn't seemed that interested in watching the male body in its separate contorted glory, and he couldn't blame them. There was something about a man's genitalia that didn't exactly call for a spotlight and fog machine. In short, he felt a little self-conscious.

He gave his semi-interested cock a tug or two with his lubed hand and watched House's face carefully. The blue gaze flicked up to meet his eyes. "That's good," House said quietly, and if Wilson hadn't known him like he did, he might have thought House was remarking on the weather. But he caught the slight hoarseness in his voice, the slight flicker of a tongue to the corner of his mouth. He was turned on.

"You really do like watching this?" Wilson asked. He had been very close to theorizing that this was about power for House, about making Wilson do something he normally wouldn't do. Pushing boundaries. Manipulating circumstances. But now, Wilson thought perhaps House honestly might want him. His blood sang, hidden away in his veins.

House answered with a soft, "I do."

Wilson gave him a small smirk and, emboldened by the confession, snuck his fingers lower. He lay on his back and took deep breaths as he worked a finger into himself, one knuckle at a time. He looked to the left, where House sat propped up on his elbows, watching with rapt attention, eyes wide like dishes of cool water.

The room was very quiet. Neither of them were breathing, it seemed.

"House?" Wilson swallowed and twisted his finger deeper. "Could you...?"

House must have heard the need in Wilson's unfinished plea, because he shifted closer on the bed and placed his hands against Wilson's chest, rubbing slowly. A weird tingly sensation of skin on hot skin. House's right hand drifted lower, joining Wilson's left between his legs.

"This?" he asked simply.

Wilson hadn't been thinking of that, not at first. He just knew he wanted to feel House touching him, to know that he was doing something right. But this was good too, so he nodded. House's index finger slid around in the excess lube coating the inside of Wilson's thighs; it joined his finger inside of him.

Wilson's eyes slid shut. It was already amazing, he realized, feeling their crooked fingers sliding in and out of him. Could it really get any better?

House pressed closer, his rough denim jeans and soft cotton t-shirt coming into contact with Wilson's bare, sweaty skin and leaving sparks of pleasure there. His breath puffed out moist against Wilson's neck as he whispered, "Good?"

"Mmm," Wilson said by way of answering. His eyes fluttered open to search House's face for clues about what he was thinking, but House's hooded gaze was directed downward, where their hands entwined weirdly. It struck Wilson that they were being too quiet. Well, House was being too quiet, for House.

"Talk to me," he murmured, arching up briefly into a particularly wonderful twist of House's finger. He felt his own following suit on instinct, falling into a pleasant rhythm.

House quirked a brow at him as if to say, You sure? Wilson licked his lips at the look. "Please," he added.

"You're incredibly tight," House said slowly, as if unsure of how Wilson would react. Wilson placated all fears by easing his hand out from between his legs and encouraging House to continue with two fingers. House did so, and kept up his running commentary. "I'm betting you haven't ever let anyone else fuck you like this. Just me. You only want me, don't you?"

Wilson fought a keening whine that built in the depths of his throat, turning his head into the pillow to muffle the small noise. House's chuckle vibrated from his chest into Wilson's. Then the probing fingers were gone, and House directed, "Sit up for a minute."

Wilson wasn't entirely happy with this sudden cessation, but House kissed him for a long moment, and Wilson complied. Guided by House's masterful hands, they arranged themselves again on the mattress: House sitting against the headboard with Wilson tucked into the V of his spread legs, chest to back, lips to nape. Wilson turned to look over his shoulder, catching House's glinting blue eyes.

And there was that strange sensation again, that feeling of falling slowly into a pool and not being able to climb out, of being dragged downward into someplace deep inside. Wilson leaned back and lolled his head on House's shoulder. He felt his now-hard cock leak warm droplets of fluid on his stomach and in the crease of his thigh. His hand scrabbled for the blue sex toy that lay tangled in the sheets, but House's steady fingers retrieved it first.

"Just relax," House said, "and let me."

The lube was re-found, the toy was thoroughly covered; Wilson watched it all like he was seeing a movie, perhaps from behind a one-way mirror. It didn't feel real. This couldn't be House's hand, gently working him open again. This couldn't be House's heartbeat, pounding frantically against his back through layers of clothes. This couldn't be House; House wouldn't place a small kiss on his temple as he positioned the dildo against Wilson's opening.

House wouldn't ask, "Ready?" But he did.

Because turnabout is fair play, Wilson tilted his head and bit House's arm just above the bicep, in the fleshy place connecting to his shoulder. House had to fight his yelp; Wilson could feel it jump in his lungs. Then they laughed, and House nipped him on the back of his neck, and the toy was slipped into Wilson's body, propelled by House's hand. Wilson's heady giggles morphed seamlessly into a low moan, and House's chuckles turned from amused to self-satisfied.

Wilson let himself fall even further into House's embrace. House's free arm now came across his chest, pulling him even closer. His other hand kept up a maddeningly slow pace, the blue toy going in a few inches, then out, then in again.

"More," Wilson demanded to House's clavicle.

"Give it some time," House murmured into his hair. "We have all night."

Wilson's bleary eyes immediately sought out the beside alarm clock, which proclaimed it to be an absurdly late hour. But Wilson didn't feel like fighting House on this point; he brought his arms up to twine around House's neck and opened his legs wider.

The sound the dildo made as it breached Wilson's body was completely obscene. House had poured enough lube onto the thing to ease it into a piece ofpenne pasta, Wilson was certain. It squelched noisily between his legs, forcing the fluid to run down his thighs and soak into the bedsheets below. Wilson would have protested the messy practice, except it felt so damn good.

House was obviously as focused on this as he was with any task. His clever fingers guided the toy in and out, varying the speed and the angle of the thrust enough to keep Wilson guessing. But he still deftly avoided the prostate, just as Wilson knew he would, the son of a bitch.

"House." Wilson didn't care if it was begging. He arched into House's touch, his fingers gripping the soft hairs at the back of House's head. "I need more. Please."

Quick fingertips twisted Wilson's left nipple, and Wilson gasped. The hand traveled lower, brushing against his painfully hard erection, cupping his balls briefly. It was too much, like House had eight hands instead of one. Yet nothing was enough; it was all too fleeting. Wilson writhed in House's hold, dragging his nails down House's neck, his shoulder, finally clutching at the other man's elbows, which held him in place like brackets. His legs shook with the strain of not coming.

"Lean forward," House said suddenly, bringing a hand up to push at Wilson's shoulder. Wilson fell forward on command, his hair falling in his eyes. "On your knees," House said, and Wilson followed his orders. The toy stayed inside him, held in place by House's hand, except now he was bent over on his hands and knees, and House was fucking him from behind with it. It went deeper, twisting deliciously, striking that chord inside him, that delicate bundle of nerves.

"Ahh!" Wilson jerked, his head snapping back. His arms quivered. They wouldn't be able to support him for long. Being spread out like this before House, completely open and vulnerable to him, it was more than he'd ever imagined. His hands groped for something to hold onto, and he grasped one of House's ankles, a constellation of small bones above his Nike. He kissed House's jean-clad calf. The dildo slid out, then in deeper.

"Going to come for me?" House asked, his voice nearly unrecognizable, it was so strained and low. His legs moved out of Wilson's reach, and Wilson listened to the bed creak; House was now kneeling behind him, working the toy in and out faster.

Wilson's elbows failed, and he pressed his face into the cool sheets, his ass offered high in the air. He felt House's other hand reach underneath him to grasp his leaking cock, to fondle his tightening balls. In this position, Wilson could almost imagine it was House's cock in his ass, thrusting away into his body, a hand around the base to keep it steady.

House's hips brushed the back of Wilson's legs briefly, crisp denim, stiff and rough. Wilson shuddered at the feeling. He, naked. House, still fully clothed and fucking him.

"Yes," he finally confessed, turning his head to rub his cheek on the bedsheets. "Yes, yes, I'm coming," he panted.

"Do it. Now," House growled, and unerringly hit the spot inside Wilson that made his heart leap in his throat. His nerves jangled, shooting conflicting messages everywhere, to every limb, until his body responded the only way it could. Wilson dug his fingers into the mattress, his toes curling under him, and he came. House's hand pumped him, the toy stroked him, and he came. He was still coming when House said, in an awed tone, "Oh my god."

Wilson collapsed in a heap, sticky, sweaty, totally spent. He gave no wince of pain when he felt House slip the dildo out of him; he was too boneless to register it as anything but a blissful aftershock of pleasure. He blinked his eyes open and tried to catch his breath, his vision swimming back into focus. He looked over his shoulder and saw House contemplating the thick pool of semen in his palm.

House looked up with wide eyes.

"Jesus," he whispered. "Where did you get it all?"

Wilson laughed, breathless and lightheaded. House was glancing around at the sheets and his own t-shirt as if at a loss, and it was too funny not to laugh at.

"I don't know where to put it!" House said.

Wilson struggled to turn around again, and he grasped House's hand in his to raise it like a cup between them. He tongue darted out to lap up a string of the sticky fluid. House raised a surprised eyebrow. Wilson raised a challenging one. House shrugged and licked at the come in his hand.

"Well?" Wilson asked.

House smacked his lips. "It's no Pabst's Blue Ribbon," he finally said, "but it's not so bad."

"Ass," Wilson said, thwacking House in the side with a wayward pillow.

In retaliation, House smeared his hand across Wilson's chest and down to his belly.

"What the hell!" Wilson jumped at the feel of the cooling liquid on his skin. "Why did you do that?"

"I'm an ass," House answered simply. "And because now maybe you'll take a shower with me."

Wilson leaned forward, a serious look in his eye. "All you have to do is ask, House, and I'll do anything with you. Anything at all." He slowly cupped the back of House's head, kissing him with gentle affection. Then he pulled away and smeared a handful of semen on House's cheek, a wide grin on his face. "Now you're dirty too. Jerk."

"You little—" House made a grab for him, but Wilson was already bounding off the bed and into the bathroom.

"Better hurry," he called over his shoulder. "Or I'll use up all the hot water."

House did follow him in a hurry, and he did strip down in the small hotel bathroom. It took some coaxing from Wilson to get every layer off. ("Pants. Now. Gimme.") The scar wasn't pretty, and House still wasn't aroused, but Wilson couldn't care less. He tugged House under the hot spray and kissed him while twisting his soft hair into weird shapes.

"Sorry," House muttered at one point, glancing down at his unresponsive lower anatomy. "It's not you, it's the stupid pills. If I it was up to me, there would be a round two right here, right now."

Wilson used his thumb to wipe the come from House's prickly cheek. "It's fine. There'll be time later." He kissed him again, and imagined all the things that they'd have to do later. There would be time to talk about what this was, what their friendship had become. There would be time to confess and come clean. There would be time to watch House lose himself in the throes of orgasm. There would be time to drown in the best possible way.



Today I found out my dad ships House/Wilson, although my mom still thinks House/Cuddy is the shit (she hasn't seen season 6 yet, though, so there's time). I thought it was so funny and cute that he would think they really should and will end up together, that I came here for porn. Good logic?

Polite sage, I just wanted to share this bit of information about my dad. It's interesting because he's not usually all that pro-gay (hm, whatever that means, you know I meant to say), but he just believes House will never be right for anyone but Wilson.

inb4 Your dad's gay.

Your dad is gay.


Your dad is awesome.

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I'll just leave this here.

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Shopping the shop?

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oh god i lol'd so hard

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