So that was it. He had given Wilson the necessary pain relief. That had not been difficult; Wilson was in so much pain there was absolutely nothing he wouldn't have done to grant him a reprieve.
No, what had killed him inside was the final request that he keep going until his own orgasm. A sad, lonely orgasm, without kisses or caresses or tender words, a physiological reaction as in a medical experiment. He had gotten more emotional reward from many a paid encounter.
He had done it, because he was powerless to refuse any request of Wilson's now, but it had broken him, making it impossible to ignore the abyss that separated what he had from what he wanted. Lying down, his eyes closed, his heart madly beating inside his chest, he desperately wished he could go back in time and refuse the aliens' offer.
He listened to Wilson's calm, regular breathing pattern, and tried once again to convince himself that what he felt wasn't really love, just some weird mixture of pity, gratitude, lack of alternatives and indeed of any other human contact, together with fifteen years of friendship.
Useless, of course: no way he could lie to himself now. The handful of minutes when he had allowed himself to pretend that he and Wilson were actually making love had been the happiest in his life, at least since the infarction and its aftermath had destroyed his love for Stacy.
He felt Wilson move, turn around to face him, saying something that definitely wasn't a love declaration whatever else it was, his easy smile expressing the pleasure that comes when a long pain is gone or very diminished. He may have to do this again. And again, until delivery, and then he would have the rest of his life to regret the loss. To wish for what he could never have, what would belong soon to yet another meaningless Mrs. Wilson.
The months of uninterrupted confinement with Wilson, the mixture of fun and laughter with the craziest moral compass he had ever met had unleashed intense feelings inside him. If he didn't mistrust the word and the concept, he would have to admit he was in love with Wilson. A hopeless love, which would have to remain unacknowledged to save at least their friendship. And would make their future sexual encounters the most terrible torture House could think of.
He started crying and didn't try to stop even when he noticed that Wilson was facing him and noticing the tears.
"House! What happened? Are you in pain again?"
What should he answer? Yes and no seemed equally wrong. He kept quiet, unable to stop crying or avert his eyes, and an increasingly upset Wilson spoke on.
"I'm so sorry. Forget this ever happened, will you? I will never ask again. I'm sorry I asked, even. I... I was selfish, didn't realize that for a straight man like you this would be so disgusting. I..."
He couldn't resist, couldn't lie, couldn't hide. He held Wilson as close as the bulging belly between them would let him and used his free hand to push their faces together. His lips found other lips, pressed them open, his tongue forced its way in the unnatural warmth of Wilson's mouth. They kissed, and kissed, until he gasped for air. The next sentences were blurted out almost simultaneously, crossing in the few inches between them and making them become a very wide gap indeed.
"I think I love you."
"House! Are you crazy?"