Tried something different in this story. It unfolds slowly. Hope you like.
Nora has forgiven them. She either laughs off or ignores House's taunts. He keeps testing, though. Dares her to call them mendacious dirtbags.
She spends a lot of time at the loft. Finds excuses to bring casseroles. She watches with a strained smile while Wilson tastes her latest creation, afraid he will find her cooking too bland.
Sometimes, House's competitiveness and jealousy adds an edge to his voice as he steals Wilson's food and answers for him. "Wilson is too nice a guy to tell you what he thinks about your cheesy dish and the cat food that's in it, but he's not gagging. Consider it a win."
Wilson makes no rebuttal, but manages to glare in House's direction.
Nora breaks the tension by playfully punching House's arm and winking at Wilson.
She spends more and more time over at their place. Wilson feels like a jerk about how he first behaved, not getting past his penis's first impression. He's in Nora's good graces now, and doesn't want to louse it up for himself or House.
Not shy, she sits on the edge of Wilson's bed and strokes his arm. She holds his hand in both of hers while she talks about her day, House's, and his. Wilson wants his time with her to linger like the summer dusk of his youth, feel her warmth against his side. He settles for her hand carding through his hair and a kiss on the cheek. She stops the moment House calls her to join him in his bedroom.
Lucky son of a bitch. Wilson lets his discontent sink into cold blue resentment. He holds onto one remaining hope, listens to the squeak of floorboards and hinges. House's door sighs closed but does not snap shut.
The night-song of skin rubbing against skin, the flutter of sheets, and wet kisses reach Wilson's ear, or maybe his own experience colors the foreplay. He closes his eyes as encouraging moans and mutterings strain to reach high notes. Begging whimpers entwine with rhythmic grunts, and a duet of frenzied shouts slice through the darkness.
Wilson allows tears to slide down his face and drop onto his pillow. The wet trails cool on his cheeks as he permits a self-satisfied half-smile to form on his face. He drifts off to sleep thinking they make quite a threesome.
There are pockets of time without Nora.
The chilly morning air snaps with static electricity. The neighboring buildings stand out against the blue sky, a stained glass window cityscape. House pushes Wilson's wheelchair to the middle of the balcony and coaxes a tennis ball under Wilson's hand before he sits down beside him.
"Time for exercise, Jimmy. Squeeze." Before his seat is warm, the ball rolls down Wilson's lap, not stopping until it strikes the base of the balustrade. Hardly the first time, House does not miss a beat, produces another ball from his pocket, and nudges it in place.
"You know how to squeeze. Think of Nora's boobs. They're not as hairy, but they're round and firm." House executes an imperceptible nod and looks off into the distance as soon as Wilson gains purchase of the ball, and the skin on his knuckles turn white. Another replacement is readily available if House hears a soft thump.
House idly listens to the traffic wafting up from the street, and turns back to Wilson. Little puffs of steamy air escape from his friend's mouth, but no sound. Wilson hates to speak after his stroke, and deciphering what Wilson says can be a trial for both of them. Nonetheless, House locates his inner asshole, and commands, "You know the drill, talk to me."
"Nah-Naraaa."
Wilson pitched him an easy one.
"Nora? You enjoyed last night's show? Did you jerk-off?"
Thwap. Ball two rolls away.
"Passive-aggressive bastard. A simple bleat would do," House mutters while magically plucking a third ball from his coat. This time he plops Wilson's hand over it with a solid pat, and presses the fingers around the orb.
"Shlami th-pee."
"You gotta pee?"
"Nooo. Nooo baal. Shlami ther…ruh…pee."
"You want a salami instead of a ball? You do remember you come equipped with your own?"
A laugh cleaves Wilson's face into two. His face contorts into a mask of half comedy and tragedy. House barely notices as he joins in the laughter, but finishes on a sigh as the last ball flees Wilson's fist.
House rubs his thigh while he shags the elusive spheres. By the time he returns, Wilson's features are composed into a comfortable blank—his expression when he is tired.
Annoyed, House waves the day-glo ball an inch from Wilson's fingertips, resting his arm on his friend's knee. "Take it, or I shut the bedroom door."
"Nooo!"
"Find out if I'm bluffing." House shakes the ball as if he were dangling a mouse in front of a cat.
Wilson's hand shakes with the effort, but after a tentative swipe he grasps it. House notes a gleam of victory in the eyes for a nanosecond, but a blink smothers the glow.
"Baby steps, Wilson."
A cloudy huff of air is the only reply. House finds these sessions frustrating. He's not the best candidate to override Wilson's depression. His cheerleading days are buried in the past. He searches his mind for a different tactic.
"I like you this way," House drawls.
"Wah--?"
"You're my chick magnet."
"Waat?!"
"You heard me, chick magnet. You're better than a dog. Nora got one look at you in your wheelchair, and me pushing you, and all was forgiven. As soon as the weather warms, I'm taking you to the park. See if you can attract other women."
"NOOO S'PERIMEN'ING WI' MEEE!"
"Calm down." House checks Wilson's pulse before continuing. "Why in the hell not experiment?" House asks as he pointedly wipes away a spritz of Wilson's spit from the corner of his mouth. Let's make the best of this. If it works out, I might even invest in video equipment for the bedroom. You can watch."
A spark returns to the brown pools. A mangle of sounds pours out of Wilson's mouth, "D$%^RnS%^##$sz."
House stares and shrugs. "When you return from India, talk slower and e-nun-ci-ate."
Fingers loosen from the ball and fan out as the palm keeps it in place against Wilson's thigh. House figures the gesture is body language for, Give me a moment.
Wilson closes his eyes and inhales, when he opens them, he says, "Caine an' Mar'in."
He pauses to analyze Wilson's custom-made patois like a wine snob sniffing and chewing on a cabernet. "'Dirty Rotten Scoundrels.' Michael Caine and Steve Martin." House permits a smile. Wilson can be more fun than acrostics and charades put together. "That we are, Jimmy. But first and foremost, we will always be mendacious dirtbags."
House ducks as a fuzzy missile aims straight for his head and flies over the balcony.