ULTIMATUM
He's spent the longest evening of his life agonizing over it, and he's finally given himself the ultimatum.
He gathers his nerve as he packs a few essentials in his bag; checking that the safety is on, he shoves the handgun deep in the side pocket.
It was obvious how much House had been missing him, and Wilson can't shake the idea that maybe he can grab a bit of happiness after all. And if there's just a sliver of a possibility, why not try for it? If he's rejected, then he can die with full confidence that he's doing the right thing.
It's win-win.
It's after midnight by the time he approaches House's apartment, but there's still a light on inside. He knocks with more confidence than he feels, comforted by the contents of the bag slung over his shoulder.
House lets him in. He's obviously not nearly as drunk as Wilson expected him to be, which makes Wilson's job a bit tougher. The eyes that look into his are far too sober, and there's some sort of naked sincerity in them that immediately frightens Wilson toward the door.
Fuck that the alternative is death, he can't do this. Best to not start this, anyway. He shouldn't have come here, he shouldn't have let House stop thinking he hated him-
His hand is shaking on the doorknob when House says his name.
He stops, listening to House limp up behind him. He should leave, he should get out, he's fucked it all up, he should open his bag and -
House grabs his shoulder and turns him around; he falls back against the door with a thud.
House stares at him with an almost frightened look on his face; what he has to be frightened of, Wilson has no idea.
Wilson is so terrified his mind is racing, he's thinking a thousand thoughts at once. He imagines pulling the gun out and using it right now, but he remembers very distinctly putting the safety on, and he's nowhere near slick enough to get the safety off in time and House would grab it from him and then he would know Wilson was crazy and-
Wilson's mind comes slamming to a halt when House kisses him. He pushes Wilson gently against the door and kisses him, firmly, and when Wilson's mouth opens in shock he pushes his tongue into it, and Wilson responds in kind because his mind may be gone but his body knows what to do.
Until House pulls back, and Wilson's body gives out as well, dropping him to his knees in a dizzy freefall. He hears his name again, even more urgently this time; he grabs House's leg, and even though his vision is blurred he looks upwards in an attempt to signal that he's all right.
And maybe he is all right. Who the fuck knows at this point.
ONE MOMENT
For just this one moment, everything is Okay.
He presses his cheek against House's chest until the other man's heartbeat is ringing in Wilson's ears.
House makes a sleepy noise of comfort and runs a hand through Wilson's hair, and Wilson almost purrs.
He has never felt this at peace, and he wishes he didn't have to fall asleep, because he knows that when he wakes up it will be different.
He will remember the last time he felt anywhere near this good.
He will remember all that he has to lose.
But right now he is able to hold House tighter and push those thoughts away, and feel truly content for the first time in his life.
HOLY GRAIL
He lies there for at least an hour before House wakes up.
He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't want this - or at least, he shouldn't have this, not like this, not with the route it took to get here.
Maybe he's overthinking it anyway. Maybe House was drunker than he thought last night, and this morning it'll be different, and House will be like 'whatever, here's your bag, just go.'
When House blinks awake, he looks briefly at Wilson then shuffles out of the room.
Wilson listens to House move around the apartment, wondering if he should leave. He's still lying there, trying to decide, when House returns, drinking from a bottle of water. He flops back down on the bed and offers it to Wilson, who drains half of what's left.
They lie silently for a few minutes, Wilson somehow a perfectly content nervous wreck, when suddenly House says, "I missed you." He turns over and kisses Wilson's neck, balling Wilson's shirt in one fist. "I missed you so fucking much-"
Wilson stares at the ceiling. He wants this so badly. And the thing is, Amber would forgive him. Amber would want him to have it. That's what makes it so much worse…
He shoves House onto his back, muffling the startled look on his face with a kiss, a real kiss, a kiss twenty fucking years in the making, a kiss full of love and anger and sorrow and resentment and regret and forgiveness; and thankfully House kisses him back just as fervently.
He's getting hard, and he can feel House getting hard in return; and when he grabs House it's like touching the goddamned Holy Grail, and House gasps and his hands are on Wilson's back and in Wilson's hair and Wilson can't stop kissing him. He keeps kissing him even as he pulls out his own dick and holds them and thrusts until House cries out and comes all over Wilson's hand and Wilson wonders if drinking it would give him eternal life.
Afterwards they lie loosely together, and Wilson doesn't feel nearly as bad as he expected. He feels terrible, of course - he knows he's the scum of the earth. He doesn't deserve to live.
But then again, who the fuck does? So he feels pretty good, considering.
EERIE CALM
He can't sleep.
Sleep seems like a waste, when House is lying right next to him; it's a much better use of his time to stare at the ceiling and listen to House breathe.
Well, not that he can really hear House's breathing; if you can literally hear someone breathe like that you might want to have a doctor check them out. "Listening to so-and-so breathe" sounds nice when referencing a loved one, though. It can fit quite poetically into one's musings. Whether it's literally true or not.
These are the thoughts that can run through a person's mind after five hours of staring at a dark ceiling.
It's been a full day and night and another day since he and House wordlessly took their relationship to that level he'd so long thought out-of-bounds; and it just seems like the world should be … different, somehow. The sky should be green and the grass should be blue, or cats should be flying or something.
Instead, everything feels distressingly the same. Except for the oddly upbeat mood House has been in the past couple of days, life doesn't seem to have changed at all.
He turns to look at House, whose sprawl is barely contained on his half of the bed.
He's in bed with House. House is sleeping right next to him. He wants Wilson in his bed. They haven't fooled around again, yet, but still – this is big. The world should be ending right now. Or exploding in a rainbow of glitter and gold stars.
But the world is dark, and quiet, and going about its regular business. The world doesn't give a shit.
He doesn't know if he can handle how normal this feels. House didn't ask him to stay, and Wilson didn't ask if he could; he just didn't leave. And already it feels as if he's here for good, and that just seems like the most normal progression of events that could possibly happen.
He should really stop thinking about this and just let it be. If he thinks about how – or why – or –
– or if he thinks about nights lying next to women he didn't love...nights lying alone in an empty hotel room...lying next to Amber...
...well if he thinks about any of that he'll just drive himself crazy.
As if House can sense Wilson thinking about people besides himself, his eyes open; he sees Wilson staring at him and half-smiles, half-frowns. "Something wrong?" he mumbles sleepily.
Wilson doesn't answer, not vocally; he moves closer to House, who wraps himself around Wilson's chest and makes a vague, happy, incredibly uncharacteristic noise.
Yes and no, Wilson thinks, staring at the ceiling and holding House tightly as he drifts back to sleep.
CONSUMMATION
House pushes Wilson onto his back and starts gnawing on his neck affectionately.
As nice as it feels, Wilson can't help but think about House's leg in this position; it's instinct at this point. He starts to ask about it, and suddenly his head is being pulled back by the hair.
"I don't want you to hurt yourself..." he says in a strained voice.
House sighs and lets go. He leans in and softly kisses the skin around Wilson's right ear. "You've worried about me enough," he says quietly. "Unless you have something to say that concerns you, just lie back and shut up, okay?"
"I'll try," he replies shakily. It's not like he doesn't want to just relax and enjoy this – he's wanted it long enough. But it's hard to not worry when he's been worrying for so...long...
...Although the way House is sucking that one spot on his neck is certainly helping to distract him...
...And House is an adult. If his leg hurts, he can stop, or adjust, and it's really not up to Wilson to take responsibility for it.
Though Wilson shouldn't be completely passive here – he can at least grab House's shirt and tear it off. House smiles as if to say that's the spirit and reciprocates.
Wilson closes his eyes and wills himself to relax and enjoy the feeling of House on top of him, between his spread legs, their chests pressed together, House's hands and lips in so many places at once.
He almost wants it to just be over with – it was all well and good to fantasize about it for years, but now that it's actually happening so many things could go embarrassingly wrong that it's hard to not just wait for those things to happen.
But House seems to have every intention of taking his time, and well...that means something; something more profound than Wilson can really process right now, but even in his confused state he knows that being treated this way by House is a Very Good Thing that he needs to savor and so he should just stop thinking already.
House must sense his distraction. "Are you okay?" he asks hesitantly. "This is...I mean, you do want-"
Oh God he can definitely not handle the rarely seen Unsure-of-Himself-House right now. "Yes," he says firmly, pulling House back into a sloppy kiss. "Yesyesyesyes."
House makes a comforting possessive noise in the back of his throat and wrestles the rest of their clothes off.
Now more eager for it just to happen than to necessarily be over with, Wilson grabs blindly for the tube of jelly on the nightstand (which he had bought – how could House not know he wanted this?) and holds it up, with a look on his face he hopes is the right mixture of anticipatory and endearing.
House grabs the tube and kisses him, then moves back a little and encourages him to pull his legs back a bit.
Obviously he feels a bit exposed, and he really wants to close his eyes for this bit but House is looking right at him and he can't look away; and he feels House's fingers gently exploring, pushing, very very carefully but very very firmly-
He makes a noise when House's fingers push into him; a noise that he knows he should be embarrassed by, but he's not, because House is looking at him so kindly, and massaging Wilson's hip so soothingly with his other hand, and oh it just feels so nice.
House works him open much longer than is probably necessary, but Wilson enjoys the attention; and when he's ready, really ready and unwilling to wait any longer, he grabs the tube himself and starts to prepare House.
House apparently can't tolerate more preparation than is necessary, for he soon grabs Wilson's wrist with a cut-off moan.
Wilson turns onto his side, which elicits a sound of disappointment from House; he grabs House's hand and says that he won't be able to relax unless he knows House will be comfortable. After a beat, House kisses his hand and starts to get into position behind him.
Though House's comfort is a big part of it, truthfully Wilson doesn't want to have to worry about House seeing his face ... this first time, at least. Whether his expression is one of bliss, pain, nirvana, despair, or any combination – he would prefer it remain unknown to anyone else.
He breathes shallowly, biting back whimpers as House pushes into him. It doesn't really hurt, not like he expected it to; but the mere idea of it threatens to make him black out.
When their hips are flush, House places an arm around his chest, kisses his neck and asks breathlessly if he's all right.
Wilson stares unseeing at the wall, the sheets balled in one fist; he says yes, and leans back into House's embrace, and tilts his head so House can more easily kiss his neck.
House starts to move, and Wilson cries out with every thrust, louder and louder until House slides his hand down Wilson's chest and moves his fist in time with his hips and Wilson comes, hard, gasping, shaking, pushing back against House's chest, momentarily unable to see.
House says his name, softly, repeatedly, as he wraps both arms around him and comes soon after himself.
Wilson lies there in House's arms, drained and at peace. He's vaguely aware of House moving behind him; of House asking something about a shower.
Wilson declines; he doesn't trust this feeling to last and he wants to enjoy it. He turns over and burrows under the covers and against House, who seems perfectly happy to stay put.
As Wilson dozes off, with post-orgasmic optimism and his face pressed against House's chest, a tiny part of him wonders if maybe this feeling could, possibly, maybe, last.
