Here's the next part. More on the way!
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Wilson was in the kitchen the next morning when House emerged from his cave, no doubt following the scent of Wilson's coffee and pancakes. Not the macadamia nut pancakes that House planned special ops missions to steal; the only nuts in the apartment were a can of honey roasted cashews best suited to beer and poker. No, these were plain pancakes, as far as Wilson could leave any food 'plain.' And now, even in his head, he was babbling like an idiot – like a guilty moron who had raided his best friend's homemade porn stash and then had really graphic dreams about said best friend while nodding off on the couch with infomercials and gospel singers tittering about on the television. This was great. Just freaking great.
House shuffle-limped into the kitchen and paused in the doorway to look at Wilson. He really was some sort of Neanderthal in the mornings – hair askew, stubble a shade darker than normal, eyes squinting against the light, a tiny sneer tugging at one corner of his mouth, as if he intended to tell all of creation to fuck off for having the audacity to wake him. And he was clad only in sleep pants and an undershirt. Wilson's eyeballs stuttered in their sockets in an effort to remain north of House's waistline. Because House normally went commando under those, and Wilson had always known this (House had mooned him once just because he was drunk and Wilson dared him not to). But, see, the sleep pants he had on right now were pale blue and striped, and one extremely indecent degree away from see-through, as in, shadows and slightly darker areas hovered under those sleep pants in the vicinity of House's groin, thin flannel brushing over the shapes underneath to the point where even if Wilson hadn't already known that House wore only those sleep pants to bed, then he would have been able to tell, without a problem, that there was nothing under them save for skin. And while that had never fazed Wilson before, he now had a rough idea of the shape and size of House's fun parts, and the way they looked straining against the front of dark brown corduroy pants. And it was just too much.
Of course, studious failure to glance caught House's attention as surely as a bald stare, because for some reason, men always strafed each other's crotches with their eyes. They probably didn't even realize they were doing it, like checking out the competition or scanning for imminent threats…
House's face crinkled up even more. "What?" He glanced down at himself, probably to make sure nothing was showing on accident, or that he didn't have a wet spot or something. When he found nothing out of place, he shrugged. And then he adjusted himself. With his hand. Wilson had no idea how he managed to keep a blank face. It was innocent locker room stuff, the last-minute resituation to make sure it's all hanging comfortably before one went out to face society. It wasn't like Wilson cared, or like he wanted to stare, but…god dammit, he had just seen the intro to a House-centric dirty video, and now here comes House, feeling himself up in the kitchen doorway.
Wilson gulped and held out a mug. "Coffee?"
House was peering over his shoulder at the living room, absently scratching at one cheek, just as he had on the VHS tape while waiting for the girl to show up. His attentions wandered groggily back to Wilson, and he shook himself. "Yeah." House stumped into the kitchen and accepted the mug, then held it out while Wilson poured fresh coffee into it from the pot. "What's the matter with you?"
"Nothing," Wilson blurted out. Please, god, don't let him turn red.
House quirked an eyebrow, then grunted dismissal of Wilson's behavior. He grumbled something about how the bad Chinese was still screwing with him too, and focused on drinking his coffee.
Yeah, Wilson thought. The Chinese food was screwing with him. "I made pancakes."
House's features lit up. "Special pancakes?"
"Sorry. No nuts." Not the kind that go in pancakes, anyway. Snicker. Erm…shut up, Wilson. "Uh…pumpkin spice pancakes. Why do you have a can of pumpkin paste, anyway? It's June."
House shrugged and padded softly away on uneven feet. "You probably left it here last Thanksgiving."
"Ah." Yeah, Wilson had made him a pumpkin pie last November just because House whined about not having any.
With his back to Wilson, House mentioned, "You're sweating."
"Food poisoning," Wilson reminded him, and fixated on serving pancakes.
* * *
The rest of Wilson's day turned into something of a hot mess. Brenda gave him a hypochondriac clinic patient who was convinced that she had the Chikungunya virus. Which of course, Wilson had never heard of. He had to pull out his PDA and text House for an explanation, which earned him a row of laughing emoticons. And then Wilson had to explain to this woman that she had the common flu. Fun times.
By the end of the day, Wilson had forgotten all about the incriminating video tape in his briefcase. He headed home, exhausted, with an armload of patient notes to type up over dinner. Pasta primavera sounded wonderful, and since his stomach had finally settled from the mishap with the questionable shrimp, Wilson whipped himself up a large serving of Italian cuisine. Half an hour later, he settled in on his couch with his dinner spread out on the coffee table in front of him, and then he opened his briefcase to retrieve his patient notes.
And there it was, the shiny black forgotten cassette tape nestled in amongst papers and note pads, mocking him. It taunted him in a ridiculous sing-song voice, like Sandra Bullock in "Miss Congeniality." You think House is sexy. And you want to do him. You think House is –
Wilson slammed his briefcase shut and blinked at the pasta under his nose. Okay. Know what? This was fine. So he was curious. Curiosity was a slow, insidious killer of men, so…maybe if he just finished watching it, then the fantasizing about what else might be on there would go away, and he could get on with his heterosexual life. Yeah. That sounded pretty damn good.
Wilson pushed his dinner to one side and fished the tape out of his briefcase, then approached the television as if it might bite him. He shoved the tape into the VCR with one finger, disgusted at himself the whole time, but he couldn't deny the appeal of watching it. He should treat this like any other work of amateur erotica, and then dismiss it. That was what he had planned to do last night, even after he realized that House had a part in making it. He should just follow through and end the entire incident.
Wilson took his place on the couch and picked up the remote. He wished he could say he hesitated to press play, but he didn't. He jabbed the little triangle with way too much suppressed relish, then mollified himself by saying that he just wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible – just like that one time he thought he had picked up a woman at a bar. Wilson scrunched up one side of his mouth in residual self-conscious mortification over that incident, snuffled, and then pretended to relax as he settled back against the cushions.
The television came to life, exactly where he had left off the night before: Crandall on his knees behind House, House in a modified head lock, the girl hovering over him with a hand latched between House's legs. Not a big deal. House was in the middle of arching his pelvis into her hand, his head digging back into Crandall.
The girl giggled and released House's crotch, running her hand up his abdominal midline and into his hair. "You're awfully enthusiastic for someone who claims not to want this."
House rolled his eyes and made a show of trying to push away from her with his legs. Of course, that merely pressed him harder into Crandall. But maybe that was the whole point. "What do you expect when you pull that shit on a guy?"
"Man, just relax." That was Crandall. "I know you."
House grunted because the girl was digging her thumbs into his inseam now, pushing his legs apart so that she could slide her thighs up under his. "Seriously," House warned, and then he threw a worried glance at the camera even as he voluntarily spread his legs farther to accommodate her, resting the backs of his thighs along the tops of hers. Wilson met his eyes on the screen, instantly riveted by a quick flash of blue.
"Dude, don't look at the camera," Crandall scolded.
House looked at the girl instead, who was in the process of laying her chest down over his. He shied when she tried to kiss him, and she purred, "Come on, Greg. Don't be such a prude."
"I'm not a prude!" House struggled for good measure, but Crandall tightened his hold and the girl shoved a hand down between them to massage his groin while she playfully moved her hips against him. House gave up a few seconds later. "Mnn…you both suck."
"Mm…I could," the girl replied, eyes lighting up. She shifted her gaze to Crandall. "You okay with that?"
Crandall shrugged. "It's a favor for a friend."
Some friend, Wilson thought, though the jury was out on whether he meant that as a compliment or an insult. Buying your high-strung roommate a night of sex to ease his mind…that was something else entirely. Wilson wondered if House had ever considered buying him a hooker to help him get over the failed marriages or the dry spells, or just the stress of being an oncologist with half his caseload kicking the bucket in slow motion. Probably not, though.
"This was supposed to be about you," House insisted. He made a token attempt to angle his hips and prevent the girl's hands from getting at his fly, but since she had stuffed herself up between his legs, he had nowhere to go.
Crandall seemed to reconsider the scene, however, and he let go of one of House's arms to touch the girl on the shoulder, stopping her as well. He looked down at House, who craned his neck to meet his gaze, and said, "Look, man. If it bothers you that much, we'll stop. It's no big deal. I just thought…maybe you could use a little distraction, is all."
"And your idea of a distraction is a threesome with my roommate and a psychotic co-ed?"
"Who're you calling psychotic?" the girl teased. House appeared to seriously consider putting an end to this, but his hesitation goaded the girl on. "Greg, honey. Chill. I've seen you on campus often enough to know you need this. You're all tied up in knots; it's not healthy." When she got no argument, the girl sat up far enough to work at the button on his pants. Even before all of this, those corduroys had been snug across his hips and upper thighs, a classic 1970's fit. By now, Wilson thought they looked downright uncomfortable, thick fabric constricting an obvious and enthusiastic hard-on.
"Midterms are a bitch," House deflected. "Sorta like you, come to think of it."
The girl smirked at him and eased the zipper over House's straining erection. "Is that so."
House swallowed some sort of whimper. "Yeah, it is." A sharp breath huffed out of his lungs and he grabbed for Crandall's knee, which was pressed against the outside of his hip. "Maybe…a blowjob would be nice."
The girl grinned. "That's the Greg House I know. The one sexual act that only you can enjoy in a threesome."
House glared at her.
Slightly uncomfortable now, Crandall asked, "You want me to leave?"
"Of course he doesn't," the girl broke in. "I'm a psychotic bitch, remember? He can't trust me alone in a room with him."
"You're both certifiable," House mumbled, but from the way he leaned back, she was obviously correct about him wanting Crandall to stay. "This never happens again."
"Never," Crandall agreed. "I consider this my one shot at experimentation in college."
House pursed his lips, but the effect of his ire was ruined by the shudder that ran through his body. The girl had pulled aside the flaps of House's fly and flattened a hand over the white cotton of his – Wilson snickered – tighty whities. Well, they had been all the rage in the seventies. Wilson knew that he wore boxer briefs now, most of the time. It was just one of those things that one picks up while doing his best friend's laundry on a regular basis.
"Fine," House snapped. Even while capitulating so that a hot girl could get him off, he still managed to sound put upon. He must have thought that more complaints were in order, because when the girl tapped his hip to get him to lift up, he muttered, "I'm in hell."
"You're an atheist," Crandall retorted.
"Not for long," the girl said, her voice dripping promise.
"Oh, stop it with the dumb clichés!" House barked. "It's bad enough you two tricked me into this, now I have to put up with cheesy dialogue – did you write this crap down or something?"
"Ignore him," Crandall enjoined. "He doesn't like being out of control of a situation."
"Seriously?" The girl arched a perfectly penciled eyebrow. "Because he seems to be doing fine with it. Very…" She rubbed hard over the front of House's underwear, and House whined. "…very fine."
House let out a strangled groan, momentarily silenced, his spine arced.
"I think he likes giving up control," the girl taunted, digging her palm in circles against House's groin. "Likes you restraining him? Some sort of…secret fetish?"
House panted helplessly under her hand, his fingers gouging Crandall's thigh as he rocked against her hand. "Nng." That may have been an attempt at a denial. Wilson couldn't tell for sure, what with the shameless squirming and all.
Crandall gazed at him for a moment, pondering the arm that he still held bent back, and House's fingers clamped on his leg. Then Crandall grinned. "You kinky bastard."
"Nuh." House grunted, his body bowed, and the resolution on the tape allowed Wilson a glimpse of the flushed skin around House's collarbone. It seemed all he could do to mumble a poorly thought out, "M'not a fetish."
The girl giggled and left off long enough to work House's corduroys all the way off and toss them off the bed, outside of the camera frame. House's shoes and socks followed, and then she climbed back between his knees, enjoining Crandall to hold him better. House jerked as Crandall reclaimed his free arm and immobilized him again, and the girl nose dived into House's crotch to mouth at the very clear shape of his cock through his underwear.
"Ah…hah…" House twitched against her face, his legs scrambling for purchase, set obscenely wide on the bed, and then he stifled a moan in Crandall's shoulder when the girl grabbed his hips and pinned them to the mattress. House's fingers drew in around fists of air, kept safely out of reach of anything by Crandall's hold on him. After a moment, House bit his lip and tried to hide his face out of sight of the camera while his hips struggled to thrust and increase the pressure.
Wilson was leaning forward over the coffee table by now, jaw slack, head tilted to one side in the hope that House would turn back toward the camera. The girl's hair blocked his view of House's crotch, so he focused on House's smooth, pale legs, impossibly long and pleasantly toned, defined just enough that Wilson could still find them attractive, accustomed as he was to the milky, soft quality of a woman's legs. Wilson knew that House had played lacrosse in college, and that he had rowed for at least one of his undergrad years. It showed; House was lean and fit, but not gangly. The girl's ministrations left House flexing his legs at intervals, thighs trembling every now and then, sliding a foot up for leverage only to let his knee fall open and start the cycle all over again. It was…extremely pleasant to look at.
The girl lifted her head and made some sort of mmm sound, which made House's breath catch audibly on the television. And that made Wilson shift uncomfortably on the couch. Wilson was just hard enough to feel it, and the friction against his pants when he moved magnified his problem, but he steadfastly refused to touch himself, not while he was watching this. That would be worse even than the fact that he was getting off on it in the first place.
"Greg, hun." The girl reached out to run a few fingers softly over House's jaw. She made a small sound of dismay in the back of her throat. "You really are tense. Is this bothering you that much?"
"No," House grunted, his face still out of camera range.
"It's just stress," Crandall supplied when House merely laid there, breathing heavily. "The guy can't unwind. It's chronic."
"Ah." As if that explained everything for her. She rucked House's shirt up, prompting House to turn his head and look at her. He really did look tense, but Wilson could see the want in his expression. "Dylan, be a doll, would you?" She indicated House's arms, and Crandall let him go so that she could pull House's shirt off, uncovering a sparse expanse of body hair dusting soft yet defined abs. "Easy, Greg. We'll have you relaxed in no time."
Wilson tipped his head farther to the side. She was talking to House like she might spook him, as if he were a skittish horse. It was odd, and yet endearing. And erotic, seeing as how House just sat there and let them take care of him on the pretense of sex. Honestly, Wilson had pegged House as the aggressive type in bed, running sex the way he ran differentials, or perhaps turning it into a game. House kept eyeing Crandall as if he wasn't sure what to make of his presence, but he leaned back at the girl's bidding and let Crandall pin his arms over his bare chest. Really, truly odd because it was an embrace disguised as forceful restraint. Crandall was hugging him. Wilson raised his eyebrows and inadvertently wondered what that might feel like, being in Crandall's place.
House lifted his hips again at the girl's prodding, and she slid off his last article of clothing to reveal a hard, pink length of cock. The underwear sailed off screen too, and it sounded like they knocked something over. All three of them paused to peer toward the right side of the screen, and then the girl shrugged and got back to business. Wilson tried desperately not to stare at House's crotch, but he couldn't help it. He cast a reflexive glance at himself, mentally comparing measurements, then hmm'd and looked back at the screen.
Wilson had to admit, House looked good like that, naked and flushed between two other completely clothed people. It probably helped that House on the screen was in his twenties, at his youthful prime. The girl didn't leave Wilson any more time for reflection on still frames. She plunged down, and from the looks of things, swallowed House whole in one go.
"Oh! Fuck." House stiffened and threw his head back, bucking at the shock of it, and then he couldn't stop himself from sighing out a long, decadent moan, though by the sound of it, he tried to lock his throat before it slipped out.
Hairs rose all over Wilson's body as that moan filtered richly through his living room, and he scrambled to stab the stop button on the remote. The television went dark and Wilson gasped, his respirations ragged. Oh sweet god. Wilson was never going to be able to look at his cantankerous best friend the same way again. His lap ached now and it was all Wilson could do not to paw at himself right there on the couch, next to the pasta primavera. He jittered to his feet and practically ran to the bathroom, where he tore off his clothes and ran the coldest shower possible.
When he stepped out ten minutes later, teeth chattering, Wilson bundled himself in towels and padded into his bedroom. A dull throb had taken up residence in his groin, but he refused to deal with it. This could not be happening to him; he was forty five years old, way too old for a sexual identity crisis. And House…good lord, if House knew Wilson had seen that tape, he would kill him. No matter that the recorded Crandall had let slip that House was, at least in college, bi-curious. It was just…just so off limits now, Wilson couldn't even fathom a single scenario where it might be okay to…to touch him, or…look…
"God, I can't do this," Wilson told his bedroom wall. House was his friend, and changing things now was just a bad idea. Hell, Wilson probably wouldn't even like it, if by some freak chance he managed to get House in bed. It was just one of those reactionary things. Wilson watched a porno, the porno was hot, Wilson got an erection… In the end, his brain was just mistakenly fixated on House's presence in the film because it recognized House's face. Wilson's arousal actually had nothing to do with House. It was just a trick of perception. An accidental neuronal association, like Pavlov's dogs.
But it would really suck if Wilson started drooling whenever House walked by. Best to get rid of the VHS just as he had originally intended, and the associations in his mind would fade. Wilson would just have to watch himself for a few weeks, maybe keep scarce. Yeah. That would work.
Thus reassured, Wilson pulled on some sleep pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt, then went back out to finish his dinner and paperwork. The television stayed off the rest of the night.
--tbc
