Summary: When House goes missing a week after a discussion about suicide, Wilson doesn't know what to think. HW explicit slash.
OoOoO
Wilson found himself shaking as he stepped into the apartment he knew was empty. House was gone… he'd just disappeared and although he occasionally had an urge to escape the world, his bike was still parked outside and he hadn't said a word to anybody. That was strange. Taking a deep breath to steady himself as best he could, Wilson pulled out his phone and dialled House's number.
And jumped as a vibration alert sounded from the coffee table. He cursed, crossing the room and sitting down on the couch because he wasn't sure he could handle standing after the realisation that he had no way of finding out where House was. Except…
His eyes fell on a battered train timetable next to the phone. Was it a clue? Was House trying to tell him where he'd gone, so that-
"Fuck," Wilson sobbed, suddenly, clamping a hand over his mouth despite the fact that he knew there was nobody else to hear him. Memories of a conversation from a week ago came flooding back, and he had to struggle not to hyperventilate.
"I don't understand how people can do things like that," Wilson had said, as the two of them sat on the couch, eyes on the short news programme that preceded the film they'd actually wanted to watch. The feature under discussion was a suicide; a man had thrown himself in front of a train, injuring the driver amongst others, and a killing 6.
"Like what?"
"Try to… take people with them."
House had sighed at that point, as though Wilson was showing true naiveté by asking.
"Because to them, their pain is all that exists. All that matters. And others deserve to suffer for not helping them."
"But even if they don't take people with them, somebody's got to find them. People are discovered by their children, their partners, neighbours… it must scar them for life."
"It's not their problem any more."
"Selfish bastards." Wilson had muttered, both intrigued and disturbed by House's understanding of the subject, and the intensity with which he'd spoken.
Oh, God. It couldn't be…
House had lost a patient just the day before. He'd almost started a conversation with Wilson earlier, but had given up before saying anything, claiming it didn't matter. And suddenly he had gone…
Did he not want Wilson to find him? Did he want to spare him that pain because he cared more than he let on? Was the timetable not a clue to his location but a suggestion of the distance he had travelled in order to escape?
Wilson forced himself to calm his breathing, beginning to see sparkles in the corner of his vision and feel tingling in his fingers. Chase had apparently seen House leave work only hours earlier, there might still be time to… help him. If indeed Wilson could help him out of a depression that warranted suicide.
With the timetable and House's phone in his jacket pocket, Wilson headed for his car, praying to whatever gods were listening that, even if House had pissed them off, surely he'd been good enough to deserve at least a chance to say goodbye… and ask why he hadn't been good enough.
He wasn't entirely sure how he made it to the station without crashing, since tears were clouding his vision pretty severely. He parked, took a moment to compose himself as best he could, and headed for the ticket office.
"Hey, how can I help?" a spotty teenager asked, narrowing his eyes slightly at Wilson's reddened eyes but choosing not to mention it.
"Uhh…" Wilson frowned, struggled a moment with his phrasing in an attempt not to look like a complete psychopath. If he got arrested for being a stalker he'd never be able to help his friend, "A friend of mine came through here earlier. Late forties, greying hair. Quite tall. Crippled…"
It was strange to him that he had no idea how to describe House to another person even though he'd known him for so long.
"He have a cane?" the boy asked, frowning, and despite his unspeakable relief, Wilson had to dread finding out what House had done to make such an impact.
"Yeah…"
"Right," the boy turned, yelled across the office, "Lorna!"
Through the dirty window, Wilson saw a young woman put aside a Nintendo DS and come up to the window. Her eyes were red, bloodshot. She looked less than impressed.
"You're friends with that guy?"
"Yeah, he's…" Wilson racked his brains again, "I'm his carer. He'd never hurt anybody, he's just… got no concept of tact. Severe, uhh, autism. Could you possibly tell me where he went?"
"You lost the guy you're caring for?"
"It's hard to keep track of him," Wilson forced his most charming smile despite how frustrated he was becoming with his inability to find out the information he needed. If he was only a few seconds too late because of this conversation he'd hate himself for ever…
Thankfully, his most charming smile was just charming enough, and the girl obliged, keeping eye contact for just a little too long at the end of their conversation. If Wilson had been able to manage to think of anything but his task, he would have been flattered. Instead, he bought his ticket and travelled the three stops he needed to, all the while thanking whichever gods had been listening earlier for making House such a noticeable figure.
Even if his somewhat offensive comments had made that poor girl cry.
And then Wilson began to wonder. Was House… leaving him clues deliberately? If he didn't want to be found, then surely he would have tried to be as subtle as possible. But then, House's mind worked a little differently. Maybe he was leaving those clues to tell Wilson that he had gone away because he didn't want to be found. If he had wanted Wilson to find him, after all, he could have just done it in his apartment when he knew who would be the next to visit. Why go to all that effort?
As he left the train, though, Wilson knew that it didn't matter what conclusion he came to. He couldn't stop until he found out, or when his resources ran out. He just cared too damn much…
Swallowing another sob, he headed for the ticket office and addressed a tattooed, fat man who insisted on wearing a vest despite the fact that nobody wanted to see the faded blue ink lines and beer belly it left exposed.
"Hi. Uhh, a friend of mine came through here earlier. Cripple."
He'd avoided saying it first the previous time, since he didn't want to make it seem like he was judging based on House's disability, but the truth was that it was the first thing people noticed, and he was getting more and more desperate with every second that passed.
"Complete ass?"
"Great, that's him! Do you have any idea… where he went?"
Wilson suddenly realised that he was asking a very stupid question. The girl earlier knew because House had bought a train ticket, but at this end of his journey House would have just walked out of the station without speaking to anybody he didn't have to…
"Well, he asked for directions…"
Wilson's heart leapt. As it thundered in his chest, he did his best to remember the directions he was given, thanking the man with a sincerity that must have seemed strange.
He set off at that embarrassing speed that was somewhere between a walk and a run, before he realised that simply running would probably look less ridiculous. It would also be faster, and if he reached House to find out that his pride had delayed him that bit too long he knew he'd never be able to forgive himself.
He came to a stop outside an absolute dive of a bar, stepped inside with a feeling apprehension and the thought that House had been giving him clues, guiding him the whole way so this had to be what he'd wanted him to do.
"Hi there," he greeted the bartender, who eyed him suspiciously, taking in his work clothing- minus the tie- and hair that had been perfectly groomed that morning before meeting Wilson's bloodshot eyes.
"I got nothin', man. Try a back alley somewhere."
Great. The guy thought he was a drug addict.
"Thank you, I'm not… oh, whatever. I'm looking for Gregory House."
"He's upstairs."
"What?" Wilson blinked. He hadn't expected it to be that easy to get an answer.
"I got a room I rent out for a few bucks a night. He comes down a couple times a year, looking for a place to… get away from the wife."
From the guy's tone as he said those last few words, Wilson gathered it was a quote of something House had said. He also gathered that he was the wife.
"Do you mind if I see him?"
"Go ahead. Second door on the right."
"Thank you."
Wilson had never been so scared in his life. If he walked into that room to find the body of his best friend just lying there, cold and pale, he didn't know what he would do. He paused outside the door, took a moment –as long as he dared- to steady himself, and opened the door. It wasn't locked.
He saw House. On a bed. He couldn't tell if he was breathing, and it took another moment to force his legs to move so he could step closer.
As he did so, though, he saw House's body heave. He was choking. Terrified, because House's chosen method of suicide would have to be a Vicodin overdose, Wilson moved and was sitting on the edge of the bed, gripping House's forearms before he'd even really thought about what he was doing.
Blue eyes opened wide and House, obviously shocked by the contact, sat upright. He continued to cough, harmlessly, and Wilson felt a rush of relief combined with rage that was like nothing he'd ever felt.
"You're an asshole, you know that?" he said breathlessly, as House looked at him as though he was the insane one.
"That's why you're here?"
"I…" Wilson stared at him for a moment in utter disbelief at his complete lack of emotion, "I was worried."
And House stared right back, clearly alarmed by Wilson's overflow of emotions, "Why?"
"Wh-" Wilson's words caught in his throat, "House, a week ago we had a conversation about suicide!"
He was breathing too heavily, too shortly; his fingers were tingling again. He was just so confused. So scared. And aggravatingly, so embarrassed because suddenly he felt like he was the one in the wrong for coming to that conclusion. How was it that House always managed to do that to him?
"I just came to get away!"
House continued for a moment to look at Wilson as though he was explaining something to very small, stupid child, but as he saw tears welling up in his friend's eyes he softened his tone slightly.
"Wilson," he met the other man's eyes, needing him to understand because seeing Wilson like that was doing something very strange to his heartstrings, "I'm not going to off myself," he sighed, the emotion of the situation getting too much for him, "At least, not in any way you don't see me doing every day."
Wilson sobbed once, clamped a hand over his mouth in an attempt to stop himself, and House felt a stab of pain in his chest. Rolling his eyes, he held out his arms, pulled his poor, scared friend into a hug that their positions on the bed made even more awkward than it needed to be. And Wilson cried, desperately, into his shoulder, shaking violently and clinging like a drowning man on his last breath.
"I just thought-" Wilson began, between sobs, "you wanted me to find you. Or… not find you."
House frowned at that. Took the other man by the shoulders and held him at arms length so he could look him in the eye.
"What?"
"You left the timetable out?" Wilson reminded him, feeling more and more stupid by the second.
"Knew I'd forgotten something," House said thoughtfully, Wilson's successful stalking suddenly beginning to make a little more sense.
"You were more of an ass than usual?"
House had no idea what that meant, but did know the reason. He nodded towards the almost empty orange bottle on the beside table.
"Short on relief."
Wilson closed his eyes, sighed. God, what was wrong with him? He'd got himself so worked up over nothing and House was sure to mock him. He couldn't help that he cared about the other man so much it had even kept him awake some nights, worrying about what might happen to him if something went wrong.
"I'd never let you be the one to find me."
The softness of House's voice was a surprise, and Wilson opened his eyes to stare in disbelief as House continued, staring evasively at the corner of his blanket as he picked at it idly.
"But then, I never thought you'd find this place," he admitted. Wilson did his best not to ask why he felt the need to escape.
"I couldn't stand it if somebody else found you," he confessed, aware of the apparent contradiction, and House's eyes met his to give him a curious look, "I just… can't stand the idea of somebody else being the last. I'd need closure."
Wilson flushed, aware that it sounded strange but needing to say something in an attempt to make House understand just what he'd done to him, emotionally.
"It'd drive you insane…" House's voice held rare sympathy, combined with disbelief at how much Wilson was affected by all this. It… wasn't a bad feeling, though. He felt… guilty. Guilt for the pain he'd caused and for the surge of amazement that had rushed through him as he heard just how much Wilson cared about him.
"You want the truth?" Wilson asked, the accompanying smile pained, "I wouldn't want to live a life without you in it anyway."
House stared at him, speechless. Blinked once, twice. Three times, but it did nothing to dispel the moisture that built up in his eyes at hearing such a confession. Wilson actually needed him. Couldn't live without him and even though he'd thought he'd known that, it had never been quite so clear.
"Could you be any more of a girl?" he reacted the only way he could.
"I'm not the one who's crying."
"You are crying."
"You started it," Wilson said sulkily, even though he knew it wasn't actually true. For a moment, the two men looked at each other, something passing between them that neither of them could really explain. House was the first to look away.
"Bathroom," was the best excuse he could manage, but thankfully Wilson didn't question it as he stood and limped to the en-suite. Thoughts whorled in both their heads, but neither really felt any clearer after those few minutes alone, and House returned to sit across from Wilson with growing apprehension. The likelihood of Wilson saying something emotional; something he couldn't handle, was pretty high. And the last thing he wanted to do was cause an upset when he was clearly so precariously balanced on the brink of a complete mental breakdown.
"I feel like such an idiot," Wilson muttered eventually, and House wondered whether he was building up to something bigger. He did his best to offer consolation.
"You shouldn't," he said, and meant it. Wilson looked at him, slightly unimpressed by what had been said but appreciative of the effort it must have taken for House to actually attempt to reassure him.
Neither was entirely sure what happened at that moment. Some spark of realisation crackled between them, though; realisation that what they had was like nothing else either of them could ever hope for. And House, finally understanding just what it was that was happening between them, found himself speaking.
"You felt it too, didn't you?"
Wilson nodded. He didn't think he was capable of words.
"Scared?" House asked. Another nod was his only reply, Wilson's eyes unfocused until they were dragged up to meet House's, expectant.
"Don't be."
What surprised House was not the fact that Wilson kissed him. Ever since their eyes had met as House sat down, he'd known Wilson was going to kiss him. What he hadn't known was just how violent it was going to be. Wilson prided himself on his restraint, and to see him break that barrier with such force was so surprising that House was on his back before he'd even realised what had happened, Wilson's fingers digging into his forearms so strongly he was sure they were going to leave bruises and a soft, wet mouth devouring his.
God, it had been so long since he'd been kissed like that. With a simple fervent desperation that meant Wilson had dropped his barriers entirely and was willing to submit. It seemed like a strange way to describe the situation, since, on top and the only one with any semblance of coherency, Wilson was clearly the more dominant figure, but what House realised better than anyone, better maybe than even Wilson did, was that the other man's greatest submission was to himself. To his real self, his unrestrained, unafraid self who apparently wanted his best friend in a way his socially influenced, self-conscious brain usually told him was wrong.
Which was why, House thought, he was probably at a disadvantage. Wilson, overcome by his emotions and the thought of losing the one thing that mattered most to him, was ruled by his feelings, and while the pain in one of House's arms gave way to a solid, slightly painful but definitely pleasurable sensation in his groin, he was being pushed towards the same situation, he still couldn't help thinking.
Wilson knew, though, and let out a frustrated growl that aroused House more than anything he could remember. Typically, and beneficially for both of them, he began to do his best to solve the problem, and while for a moment House mourned the loss of pressure on an area that was demanding attention, his breath caught in his throat at the sight of Wilson, annoyed after only a few seconds, ripping House's shirt open, buttons flying off to land, unheeded, on the floor. There was a pause as Wilson, hands hovering momentarily over House's chest, took in the sight before him, and their eyes met again, both men surprised by the intensity of the emotion they saw reflected back at them.
And then that surge of emotion was embodied once more, and House marvelled at how Wilson managed to mind his leg despite the fact he was otherwise engaged; straddling him that bit higher than usual before leaning down to kiss him, weight supported on one arm while the other hand strayed downwards to explore. House couldn't deny his enjoyment as Wilson traced details on his chest, circling nipples and continuing downwards, enjoying the unfamiliarity of a solid chest beneath his fingers, the strangeness of brushing through hair below the navel, the surprising thrill of toying softly with it as he refrained from dipping below the waistband that buttoned on the wrong side. However, he couldn't hide his annoyance that Wilson was still fully clothed, especially when the other man broke their kiss, mouth straying downwards to kiss House's jaw, nipping experimentally before latching onto his pulse point and sucking softly.
Even as he tilted his head away for better access, wordlessly encouraging even though Wilson knew exactly what he wanted, House fumbled for the bottom of Wilson's shirt, beginning to pull it upwards, gliding his hands smoothly up Wilson's sides and triggering a shiver he felt vibrate against him. Co-operating, because the outcome, the feeling of that exposed chest against his own, was worth the momentary loss of contact, Wilson sat up to pull his shirt over his head, throwing it off to the side and feeling something of a thrill as he noticed House's eyes, dark with desire, fixed firmly on him. He hadn't felt wanted in far too long, and having spent so long denying himself, and knowing that House had been doing the same, he seemed to feel it so much more intensely. The thought of losing him before he'd had a chance to express himself caused a painful swell of desire inside of him, and every time it got harder and harder to resist what was being so clearly offered. He just couldn't fight the urge to experience the other man, to touch him, and taste him and hear his breath catch in his throat as his need made itself known too.
And pretty quickly he just gave up trying to deny himself what they both so clearly wanted. Lowered his mouth once more to that fluttering pulse point, and bit, sucking hard on the skin between his teeth because he didn't know how else to express how he was feeling, and was rewarded with the feeling of House tangling his fingers in his hair, massaging his scalp, encouraging him until he reluctantly released his hold, and then urging him up again into a kiss. Wilson gladly obliged, relishing the way his damp skin caught slightly against House's as he stayed as close as possible and uttering a soft sound of approval as House's hands drifted downwards to rest on his backside. How was it that the other man always knew exactly what he wanted? That he knew exactly when to be gentle, and when to squeeze so hard it was almost painful, pull him close as if he was trying to mould their bodies together into a single being because he knew that neither of them was complete without the other, and kiss him like his life depended on it.
And maybe it did. Maybe House really needed him, like he needed House. Needed that reassurance that, no matter what else happened in life, there was always somebody there who understood them. Even if that somebody was a cold, heartless prick who would rather cut his own cock off than show affection in public, and who was, rather distractingly, toying with Wilson's belt buckle. Wilson was impatient, wanted to move his own hands to help, but had his weight to support and, frankly, was enjoying the kiss and the long-desired feeling of skin contact far too much to think too hard about anything else. He obliged in his own way, though, one hand slipping beneath House's head, brushing through short, soft hair and loving the feeling of it between his fingers, safe in the knowledge that he wouldn't have to pause to untangle it at any point. And, as he took control of that aspect, House furthered the proceedings in another area, finally finishing with his belt buckle and pant buttons before sliding them down.
With the position he was in, House was able to, with a little effort, push the material down almost as far as Wilson's knees but no further, before scraping his fingernails up the back of Wilson's thighs and smiling as a quiet keening sound escaped the other man's throat. God, he was good. And as Wilson, energy suddenly renewed, shifted his weight back, kneeling up, House's nails still tracing torturous patterns on his thighs, their eyes met again. House felt his heart skip a beat, and knew that Wilson's had done the same. He smiled softly, genuinely glad for the chance he'd been given, and was surprised to see that the other man's expression held nothing but sadness of an intensity that hurt. House's curiosity was almost entirely forgotten, however, as Wilson's hands fumbled with his jeans, and he suddenly realised just how tight they were. Denim chafed as they were tugged down, but the blessed relief was worth the momentary pain, and Wilson's appreciative look quickly overshadowed any self-consciousness he might have felt in front of anybody else.
But this was Wilson. If House couldn't trust him then he had nothing left. And Wilson had proved time and time again that he deserved that trust. Which was why, he supposed, as Wilson shifted backwards, down the bed, pulling House's jeans off as he moved before relieving himself of his own pants and moving forward again, House let him settle between his legs, despite how aware he was of what was clearly about to happen. Or perhaps because he was aware of what was going to happen. He just couldn't find it in himself to object, even though the result could tear them apart more painfully than ever. Suddenly, he even wanted to be that close, because maybe it would convince Wilson once and for all that he wasn't going to leave him.
There had always been something between them, something intangible and indefinable, that kept them together, that drew them to each other. And House had pushed things, almost to their limit; for each of them the idea of losing the other was the most terrifying thing in the world, and they were both feeling that need to express themselves. To show the other that they needed them, because they couldn't quite put it into words.
Except, of course, for the jumbled curses House couldn't help uttering as Wilson, finger slicked with nothing but his own spit –they could possibly have planned ahead a little- pushed it inside of him. House gritted his teeth; it didn't hurt, not as much as he knew it was going to, but it was definitely not something he was used to. It was as much as he could manage to fight the urge to just push out against the intrusion. Eyes squeezed shut as he struggled to focus, he jumped as he felt a soft touch graze his face. Blinked a couple of times as, fuck, tears clouded his vision, and inhaled sharply at the heartbroken, heartbreaking, expression on Wilson's face. House took the hand that still lingered at his cheek in his own, tried to smile but managed only a grimace of resolution.
"I'm okay," he managed to choke out, though, although the pain of the removal of that finger caused him more pain than the initial entrance had. He bit back a groan, met Wilson's eyes after an involuntary wince and saw the other man close to tears, even as he persevered, slicking two fingers up, biting his lip as he pressed them to House's somewhat less-than-yielding opening.
House had never seen him like that before; never seen him so clearly conflicted. As the two fingers stretched him, he hissed in pain, and Wilson's free hand squeezed his. House knew what he was saying; knew that he was sorry, but from the way his eyes, narrowed in concentration and dark with lust, were set, House knew that nothing was going to stop him from going through with it. He tried to relax, forcing even breathing that lessened the pain slightly, noticed Wilson watching his expression carefully as he pushed further into him, couldn't help giving him a questioning look in return.
"Ow!"
And objected verbally as a sudden thrust served further to convince him that something was tearing. His breathing hitching despite his best efforts, he gave the other man a hurt look, and found in return something akin to… anger. Frustration. Wilson was hurting him on purpose. He was trying to punish House for making him worry, for making him feel like he did. Because he loved him. Couldn't imagine a life without him. He'd said as much, and this was just some other way of showing it.
And it was tearing him apart, the desire to hurt conflicting with his need to protect him from everything that was bad in the world. But punishment would teach him. Teach him not to do it again because if he did, he didn't know if he could take it. And House had never seen it as clearly as he had at that moment; the split second between realisation and the sudden electric thrill that shot up his spine as those fingers collided with something inside of him.
He knew what it was, of course, biologically. But he'd never-
"Ohh, fuck. Do that again," he breathed as a second touch forced his eyes shut, his back arching and his hand squeezing Wilson's so tightly he knew it had to hurt.
Over and over, Wilson did as he was told, perfecting the movement needed after a few tries, leaving a long enough pause between each one to keep House from getting too far ahead of himself. All the while, he stretched gently, scissoring his fingers a little more each time. He didn't really want to hurt him. Just cause him enough pain to make him realise what he'd done by being so completely inconsiderate.
And, if he was honest, keep this gorgeous body practically writing beneath him for as long as possible. God, but he was beautiful. Wilson honestly didn't know what he'd do if he lost him.
Which was possibly why, as his fingers left that tight warmth, House looked up, breathing heavily, to see him watching, desperately trying to memorise each of those details that made the moment so completely… unique. He'd never be able to recreate the scene, the flood of emotions running through him and the knowledge that he would treasure the memory for the rest of his life. And, for all he knew, he'd never get another chance to relive anything similar.
And even as he spat on his hand, transferring it to his guiltily aching cock in preparation for what was possibly the most unhygienic sexual experience of his life, he knew that he couldn't wish for anything else.
Despite his previous efforts, contracted muscle initially prevented his entry. But Wilson wouldn't give in; wouldn't stop until he had what he wanted because maybe if he did, House would understand. Understand, in that physical closeness, the real meaning of the action.
And eventually he felt a relaxation; met House's eyes and bit his lip as he pushed into –fuck, was it tight- the gloriously willing body beneath him. His teeth drew blood that he felt drip down his chin, but he ignored it. He was too busy struggling to breathe; he felt like his whole body was being enclosed, suffocated, and it took all he had not to completely lose himself at that moment.
He closed his eyes, trying desperately to focus on anything but how good it would feel to fulfil his urges, how amazing it would be to hear those sounds of pain shift slowly into ones of desire that finally mirrored his own. Because he couldn't hurt him. He had to convince him, had to show him and persuade him that this wasn't just some stupid moment because he hadn't had any in a while. He knew that he didn't know what he would have done if he had found House, cold and pale and gone in that bed. Didn't know what he'd do if he'd lost him before he'd had a chance to tell him-
"I-" Wilson began to speak, breathlessly, and inhaled sharply as House's hands, fingers stiff from having fists clenched for so long, found his face, smoothed his hair back. Opening his eyes, Wilson felt the sting of salt and suddenly realised why there was very real concern in the other man's expression. Again, he opened his mouth to speak, to explain, but his words caught in his throat as House beat him to it.
"I'm sorry," House's teeth were gritted with pain, but his words were clear. And as Wilson's tears began to fall faster, his actions were clearer still. Slowly, and with some difficulty, he pushed his hips upwards, encouraging. Permitting. And that was all Wilson needed.
He started slowly. He had to; the friction was almost unbearable, and the whimpers of pain he'd been expecting hurt him so much more than he'd thought they would. Still, the slowness of his pace meant he was able to gradually lean forward until he was able to claim a soft kiss that stopped the sounds almost immediately. As they broke apart, Wilson was momentarily shocked to see blood before he realised it was his own.
God, it wasn't exactly how he'd imagined the moment, on those rare occasions he allowed himself to think about it. His imagination hadn't been quite deluded enough to involve hundreds of rose petals and a seamless transition from intellectual conversation to kissing to passionate, beautiful sex, but they had at least involved a shower beforehand and a sufficient amount of lubrication. And although the feeling and idea of House cleaning the blood from his neck with a warm, hot tongue wasn't unwelcome- in fact it felt pretty fucking fantastic- it was still a little further outside of his comfort zone than he would have liked. Wilson could tell from the way his movement was becoming easier, though, that House wasn't exactly bothered by it either.
"You're gorgeous like this," House breathed, warm air against damp skin making Wilson shiver deliciously in his arms.
And all restraint Wilson had managed to salvage suddenly disappeared. In those whispered words, his fears dissolved and there was only the feel of the warm body beneath him, the knowledge that the other man needed it as much as he did. He began to thrust, shallow at first, the friction burning slightly but the pain only adding to the sensation.
He heard and felt the vibrations of groans from both of them, was dimly aware of House's hand moving to jerk himself roughly. It didn't take long for either of them to finally allow themselves to be overwhelmed; House coming first with warm spurts of a force he hadn't managed for years. And the resulting muscle contractions pushed Wilson over the edge as well, House's whimper of pain from his continuous assault on an over-sensitive area coaxing a final guilty spurt from him before it all became too much, and he collapsed.
Naked, sweaty and sticky, they both laid there for a moment, needing a little time to recover and think about what exactly they had just done.
When they spoke, it was in unison.
"I'm sorry."
Eyes met. Neither knew what the other needed to apologise for. But they nodded, acquitting, all the same. Because it didn't matter what it was. They were forgiven.
OoOoO
I tried something new with the sex, here. Something a little less pretty but hopefully no less beautiful.
Excuse me while I throw up some rainbow sparkles.