"House, my back itches," I whined, sitting up and pulling my t-shirt off to give him access. House limped over from the kitchen, let out an annoyed grunt and placed his hands on my shoulders. "It's mostly in the middle, near my neck, and on the sides and lower down, and—"
"Shut up," Greg commanded, in a loud voice. "Stand up." I did so, even though I was exhausted—and sweaty because of the fever I'd for more than twelve hours. Look down at your chest." I did as he said. "How does a man in his forties get the chicken pox?" he taunted.
"The same way a four-year-old does. I must have been exposed to the virus,' I retorted, sticking my tongue out at him. "If, however, you meant to ask why I didn't get them before now, it's because both my brothers got it the week I went to Washington D.C on a school trip." House stood up, and walked away. "Hey, still itchy over here!"
"Don't scratch," he called from wherever he was. "You could get a massive infection and—theoretically—die." Greg returned to the den carrying a bottle of calamine lotion. "I should have known you'd have some of this. I'm surprised there aren't any cyanide kits in the bathroom."
"You planning to kill me for he insurance policy?" I joked back, hoping to take my mind off the itch for a few seconds. "Please just put it on. I had poison ivy once that wasn't this bad."
"I'll do your back because you can't reach, but you gotta do the rest yourself." House pressed something cold and slimy onto my skin. After I painted nearly every inch of myself pink, I pulled my pajamas back on and stretched out on the sofa to rest. House had disappeared again, most likely to get dressed for work. "I know you said I didn't have to stay home but that was before you needed someone to keep you from scratching open your pox marks."
"I'm not going to—ahhh" I had to cut myself off because my cheek was starting to tingle. "But it would be nice to have someone here who can reach my back"
"I know a few people who are equally qualified to lather your body with lotion and who won't be grossed out by a dude with puss filled sores on every inch of his body. Okay, some of them might be grossed out but they're better at pretending not to be than I am."
"No hookers,' I exclaimed, perhaps a little too vehemently. "This is embarrassing enough as it is. Plus, a million things could go wrong. A prostitute isn't going to now what to do if my fever spikes or—" House rolled his eyes but he was only half as annoyed as he wanted me to think.
"Fine, but I get to pick what we watch on TV."
"There's a TV in your bedroom," I snipped, playing along. House was almost always more than willing to do anything I asked him to but he couldn't act like he was okay with it. He had to make it seem as if I were asking him to carry me up a couple dozen flights of stairs.
"If I have to be here in case of emergencies, I have to be where I can see them happening. You're not going to be able to call for help if you stop breathing." I smiled a little, laying on my side and taking a couple sips of juice. "I'm gonna go call Cuddy." A few minutes wet by. "Well, we got the time off I asked for but she might be stopping by later."
"She doesn't think I'm sick?"
"She doesn't think a forty-year-old is likely to have chicken pox. Especially since we both have a long history of lying to her." Greg spent the next several hours trying to distract me with tasteless jokes, gossip, and funny stories about 'stupid" patients, (all of them exaggerated, I'm sure) and daytime TV. I appreciated how hard he was trying but the calamine lotion started to wear off and I was beginning to feel worse and worse. The chickenpox were an agonizing itch that whispered in my ear over and over, "scratch me, scratch me." A foreign invader attempting to take over my mind and body. I spent hours silently debating the pros and cons of letting my fingernails rip open the awful pustules. Yes, they'd scar and I might become infected but I'd be free of it's terrible obsession. No longer would I be required to paint myself pink for a moment of relief for an itch so intense it actually, physically hurt.
"House can I just scratch a little bit? Please?" I begged. "Or you could scratch for me." He stood up and made his way to the kitchen. "What are you doing?" No response. "Come on, I'm suffering over here!"
"I know," House explained, as he returned, carrying a container of oatmeal. "This will help." I followed him to the bathroom where he filled the tub and added the contents of the box. "You're not going to stay in here and watch me take a bath, are you?" I asked, and felt myself blushing slightly. For some reason, ever since the stuff with Nora, I'd found myself thinking about House in was that confused the Hell out of me. I even had a sex dream about him though I'd had those dreams about people before and usually it had nothing to do with me wanting to screw them. Then again, the one involving house had also caused a certain physical reaction that both excited and terrified me. As if fantasizing wasn't bad enough, now I'm imagining a look of desire on his face, I thought. "If I pass out in the tub, I could drown," I offered, hoping he wouldn't mock my stupid excuse to be naked with him in the room.
"Hmm, that is a possibility, an while I don't nee you to write Vicodin scripts for me anymore, I'd hate to go back to being friendless. Plus, I' feel guilty if you died and I was twenty feet away." He actually helped me get my pajamas off but I was too terrified of what might happen to take my underpants off. 'You are such a prude, Wilson," he mocked. I shrugged and lowered myself into the water. I closed my eyes, leaning back and relaxing.
Some time passed, it could have been five minutes; it could have been an hour.
"I don't see why I can't scratch a little," I complained. "I let you slice your hand half-way open because of your itchy mosquito bite last year."
"As memory serves you were far from supportive and kicked me out of your apartment after I had a nightmare and couldn't sleep. By the way, there was a mosquito. I saw it." Even with my closed eyes, I knew he was gloating. "Lean forward." As I did, Greg's legs brushed against either side of my body.
"Um excuse me but I was using the tub." Actually it was very exciting. An electric tingle ran through me. He sat down ignoring my protests and pulled me back into his arms. He grabbed a handful of oatmeal, and rubbed it into my back, applying deep pressure, in a circular motion. "Ohhh—stop it! Get out of the tub or find a new apartment." It was an empty threat though, and House knew it.
'Don't be so uptight, Wilson. I've got my boxers on. Basically this is like a pool party." Greg's hands were on my chest now. I felt his thumb glide across my nipple and knew what was going to happen even before my body actually did anything.
"Get out, get out, get out!" I shrieked, trying to hide my erection.
"Relax, Jimmy. I'm a doctor. I know that the male body and sometimes even the female body responds no matter who is touching it," he explained. "That being said, you have two options. 1. You can do something about that," House said, as he massaged some oatmeal into my arms. "2. You can ignore the thing, and get all uncomfortable waiting for it to go away."
"Are you going to sit there and watch while I…" I let my voice trail off, terrified of what might pop out of my mouth next. I was already picturing my best friend and I having sex with me. I can't risk House finding out how I feel about him… In seconds, his hands had gone from rubbing my arms to rubbing something else. He was sensitive yet firm, and seemed to have an expert knowledge of my body. I didn't even realize I was moaning until I heard my voice echoed back to me via the bathroom tile. I leaned back into his body and felt Greg's hardness against my back. "I've never—"
"I know, Wilson. I've thought about this a couple of times but otherwise…look, if you don't like this tomorrow morning we can just pretend the whole thing was a hallucination from your fever. It'll be awkward between us for a while but things will go back to normal." I nodded and leaned into his touch. "Do you want me to stop?"
"Please don't," I begged. Now both of is hands were on me. One was cupping my balls while the thumb of his other hand rolled over the head of my cock. I don't know if things ended quickly because I had been alone for so long, or if the fever haze made it seem faster. House helped me out of the tub, and handed me a towel. Once dry, Greg took me to the bedroom, where I stripped off my boxers and stretched out on top of the covers.
"Do you need a second coat of paint?" he asked, holding up the pink bottle.
"Actually the itching seems to have stopped. For now," I explained, and then yawned. He curled beside me on bed and continued to rub my stomach and shoulders. "Apparently a hand-job is the cure for the chickenpox. Too bad most people get it as kids when the can't appreciate the treatment."
"Actually, you'd probably get arrested for performing it in most cases as well. Those nutty child care advocates just don't see the value of therapeutic sexual stimulation when it's preformed on an underage person," House added, smirking.
"Well, I guess we'll just have to keep this little discovery to ourselves," I suggested, burying my face in his chest. "I wonder if it works for pain too?"
Greg leaned down, kissed me, and smiled as he said, "Well it certainly couldn't hurt to try."