The next morning found them sprawled out on the couch in House's living room, enjoying the dawn of a glorious Saturday, complete with donuts…which House had whined about until Wilson consented to go out and buy them. Wilson refrained from seconds and lounged back on his side of the couch, his fingers laced around a mug of coffee resting over his navel. House had the donut box on his lap and the TV remote in his right hand. It was only seven in the morning.

Wilson tried not to be obvious about the glances he tossed in House's direction every few seconds, but House seemed preoccupied enough that he wouldn't even notice if Wilson outright stared at him. Instead of bringing up the strangeness of the previous night, Wilson asked, "Didn't you have an appointment to see Ngyen last week?"

House glanced over in the middle of biting into a custard-filled, chocolate-covered lump of saturated fat. Around a mouthful of said delicacy, he replied, "Yeah," and then turned back to the Cartoon Network.

Wilson rolled his eyes and spoke as if to a seven year old. "And how was your visit to the doctor's office, Greg? Did you get a lollipop?"

"Indeed I did, James," House replied without looking away from Tom and Jerry. "And then I fellated it in front of the receptionist."

Wilson laughed in spite of himself. "You're disturbed." Then he sobered. "Seriously. How did it go?"

"Fine."

Wilson's radar perked up at that, despite the early hour. He turned his head without lifting it off the back of the couch to encounter House's sullen profile on the next cushion. "Gee. You're so convincing, I don't know why I ever doubt your complete, unfettered honesty."

House threw him a glare that pointedly lacked amusement before digging about in the donut box for a fresh artery-clogging morsel. "He says it's only been four weeks."

Wilson had expected House to be peeved at whatever the pain specialist said, but he didn't expect that level of bitterness to suffuse his words. "So…he wants you to stick with it for another month or something?"

"Yeah," House snapped, waspish as Wilson had not heard since the Tritter fiasco, when he had detoxed without the benefit of rehab or nausea meds.

Wilson looked away, then risked asking, "Is it worse than you've let on?"

"I'm handling it. Stop worrying."

"What's your baseline on his regimen?" When no answer was forthcoming, Wilson sat up and turned to face House, his leg drawn up on the couch in front of him. "It was a four before you started the new plan. How much worse is it now?"

"Wilson…" House made a frustrated sound and mashed his knuckles into his forehead. He accidentally left sprinkles behind in his eyebrows. "Look, just…just stop, alright?"

Wilson looked down at his coffee and nodded, disappointed. "Okay. Fine. You're handling it."

House rolled his eyes and flopped back on the couch. "You're gonna pout now."

"I'm not pouting."

"Your pouty-lip is sticking out. How is that not pouting?"

Wilson rolled his eyes and then made doubly certain that his lips were evenly placed. "I don't have a pouty-lip."

"What do you call this then?" House reached across the couch and blubbed Wilson's bottom lip with his index finger.

Wilson mastered the death glare in thirty seconds flat and turned it on House.

"Hm." House drew back and engrossed himself with the donuts, which Wilson mistakenly assumed marked an end to the conversation. That was, until House picked up two cream filled custards and pinched them together like a big pair of chocolate-covered lips. "Wilson! Don't sulk, Wilson!" House tipped over on the couch to rest his head in Wilson's lap, obscenely close to his flannel-clad crotch, and stuck the donut lips in Wilson's face. "Eat me!"

Wilson bit his lip and screwed his face up to hide his reluctant smile, which of course merely spurred House on.

"And if you ask really, really nice, Greggy-pums will smear us all over your funnables and lick us off. Would you like that? Would little Jimmy like that?"

Wilson relented. How could he not? His cock was about a millimeter away from poking House in the ear. "Big Jimmy would certainly like that. And you're disgusting, by the way."

House pulled the donuts back, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Is that a no to the cock custard?"

"I didn't say I was any better."

House grinned – evil was made of that sort of grin – and heaved himself upright again, his hands occupied with donuts. "I should do sit-ups more often," he mumbled when he had to lift a leg to counterbalance himself halfway up.

Wilson shoved him helpfully between the shoulder blades and pointed out, "I do know what you're doing."

House donned his innocent face. "Planning to squeeze donut innards all over your dick and then indulge my oral fixation?"

Wilson bobbled his head in the affirmative but added, "Clever deflection strategy. You can suck my concern out through my urethra."

"Well, it is closer to your brain than your nose, and I won't need a bendy straw and a crochet hook."

"You – " Hm. Wilson had thought that his House-said-what? tick disappeared months ago. "Oh…kay?"

House scooted to the edge of the couch and shot him a smug look. "Mummies."

Right. Mummies. It all made sense now. "Whatever. I'm not gonna drop it. You know that, right?"

House pursed his lips and suppressed a sigh. "All of a sudden, I think I'm losing my appetite."

Wilson sat forward too and rested his elbows on his knees. "Look. You can either tell me about the appointment, or you can discuss last night. Frankly, you're really starting to worry me."

"Oh, for – " House dropped the donuts back into the box and tilted his head sideways to glare at Wilson. "Fine. I felt like crap last night because my mother decided to wax poetic about my non-biologic dad, and then you said something stupid, and I decided what the hell. I'll talk. You're always harping on me to do that psycho-babble sharing crap anyway."

"You…cried, House. You had a meltdown, and then you got off on it."

House scowled. "Knock it the fuck off with the Mister Rogers tone. I'm not falling apart."

"House – "

"I don't know what happened," he insisted. "I don't know, Wilson. I was okay, and I felt safe, and it was…weird."

"Feeling safe was weird?"

"You don't get it." The hopelessness in his tone made Wilson grasp his knee, even though he knew that the gesture wouldn't go over well. House endured his comfort for maybe three heartbeats, and then shoved his hand off.

"Then explain it to me."

"It's just things, Wilson."

Wilson decided to try a different tack, something perhaps more direct. "How old were you when you knocked over the punch bowl?"

House gouged his knuckles into his forehead. "Leave it be."

"Why?"

House whipped his head up and practically exploded. "Because I don't want to talk about it! Because I don't even want to think about it! Why can't you just stop?"

Wilson drew back in alarm. Even during the infarction, he had never seen such impotent fury on House's face. "Okay." Wilson licked his lips, then said again, "Okay."

House hung his head and made a visible effort to calm himself down, wringing his hands between his knees.

Wilson dared to say, "I just want to help."

"That's all you do, you want to help." House's every syllable dripped venom. "You never actually do, though."

"That's not true." Wilson denied it as much for his own benefit as for House's. "You were talking last night, you opened up to me. Why are you acting like it was an attack, like you have to slink off and lick your wounds? It wasn't a bad thing." He hesitated. "Was it?"

"It was if you don't shut up about it." House gave him a pointed glare and then faced the television, probably just to have something else to look at. After a few more seconds, though, he deflated a bit. "I was seven. It was cold. Please don't push it."

Wilson nodded because he didn't know where he could push it to at this point. That sounded like some sort of passive child abuse, and if it was… Wilson didn't know what to do if it was. He found it interesting, though, that House chose to disclose that morsel, rather than report on his pain management regimen. He had to know that Wilson would latch onto it like a bottom feeder in a dirty aquarium. That could only mean that House wanted to distract him, to hide how terribly the new medication was working out. In a screwed up, House-ish sort of way, that was sweet. The past was immutable and irrelevant in House's worldview; in the present, he didn't want Wilson to worry about him.

Too bad Wilson couldn't share his worldview. Also too bad that the past was apparently more relevant than House would have liked. It bothered him so much that he couldn't even deal with it, except to ignore it altogether.

"Your mom expects you to call in an hour or so."

House shrugged an acknowledgement and made random faces at the floor. "Yeah. She says she brought some stuff for me. From my dad." He glanced at the fireplace. "We should buy some marshmallows."

Wilson couldn't help but smile at that. "Those rusty barbecues at the park work better. You can use more lighter fluid without burning a building down."

House snorted, his lips quirked into half a smile. "Yeah. Hotdogs, then. I'll even spring for Kosher."

"With my bank card, no doubt."

"Can't use mine," House pointed out, as if this were a foregone conclusion. The frown returned, though, and he absently rose from the couch. Wilson watched him pad from the room, his steps heavy and lopsided.

The bathroom door snicked shut soon after, and Wilson sighed. For once, he really, truly didn't know how to help. And it bored holes into him to know that. He gathered their dirty coffee cups and the uneaten donuts and retreated to the kitchen. Once he heard the shower turn on, Wilson picked up the phone and dialed his own apartment. It rang a few times, and then Blythe picked up.

"Is that you, Greg?"

"No, it's James." He took a deep breath. "What the hell did John do to your son?"

* * *

Wilson could be confrontational when he wanted to, when he felt the situation warranted it. But right now, he couldn't muster it up; he felt numb. Wilson hung up the phone less than ten minutes later, his heart beating like a jackrabbit on speed.

Blythe hadn't actually confirmed anything at first; she'd fed him excuses and rationalizations, much as House did when he wasn't comfortable with a discussion, or more rarely, when he chose to hide from the truth. But the manner in which she had done so, downplaying when she didn't even know what House might have told him, made the truth painfully obvious. He was fuzzy on the exact course of the conversation, though, owing to his racing thoughts.

Wilson knew that he had said something like Stop deflecting several times, but to no avail. Then there were bylines like Greg was a difficult boy and We couldn't just let him run wild. Wilson said something House-worthy after that, though he couldn't remember what it was. He just knew that it cut deep and he could hear Blythe choking back tears on the other end of the receiver while defending things like force-feeding Greg an overdose of castor oil when he sassed his dad. Wilson couldn't ever remember seeing that stuff in a pharmacy as a kid, but considering the amount of time that the House family had spent outside of the US, maybe it was easy for them to obtain. And at some point, Blythe had actually said Look, the ice baths were a last resort, when we couldn't make him understand any other way. We. Not him, not just John. We.

Wilson didn't have all the details. He didn't know if that was the worst of it, or why House was bringing it up now, like this, but it was there in front of Wilson, for the first time. And it explained so much.

The shower cut off as Wilson started to count his breaths, as if he were having a panic attack. Like he had any right. He slumped onto the couch and let the dead phone slip from his fingers, staring at Tom and Jerry on the television in front of him. What did he do now? House would know something was wrong. Should Wilson bring it up? That seemed like the last thing House wanted, and for once, Wilson didn't care if it was healthy for House to repress it or not. He didn't want to ever again look at that lost little boy who had stated point-blank that his dad didn't love him.

Wilson pulled himself together when he heard House thump out of the bathroom. In the shifting reflection of the television screen, he saw House detour to the bedroom for a t-shirt to go with his jeans, and then he appeared behind Wilson in the hallway, black on blue.

"Wilson?"

Of course House could see Wilson's discomfiture. House saw everything.

Uncharacteristically quiet footsteps brought House to Wilson's shoulder. He leaned over the back of the couch to get a look at Wilson's face. "Migraine?"

Wilson felt like an ass. House was being solicitous; he sounded like he cared. Wilson hardly ever doubted that House cared, but House didn't show it if he didn't have to. "No. I'm…fine, House."

"Panic attack?" Without waiting for an answer, House pressed his fingers to Wilson's pulse point. "Yeah. Don't move."

Wilson shut his eyes for a moment, but he didn't have to the heart to disabuse House of his notion. When House came back from the bathroom with a Xanax and a Dixie cup of water, Wilson merely swallowed them and thanked him. He didn't even care to wonder why House had Xanax at his apartment.

House took the paper cup back after Wilson drank everything, then rounded the couch and plopped down next to him. He pounded his cane into the rug a few times, looking anywhere but at Wilson, then mumbled, "Didn't mean to yell."

"Don't you dare apologize," Wilson whispered. Ironic, considering that an apology was often the one thing he wanted most from House. Even without volume, Wilson's words shook. "You told me you didn't want to talk. I should have listened. That's pretty much what you implied last night: I don't listen, and then I hurt you."

"I gave you a panic attack," House pointed out. "You think I wanted to do that?"

Wilson shook his head listlessly. No, you didn't give me a panic attack. No, I don't think you'd ever try to cause one. What he said out loud was, "It's okay. I just need to catch my breath."

House seemed satisfied by this. How could he not see through to the part where Wilson knew? How could he mistake shock for a panic attack? "That custard offer is still on the table."

Wilson cracked a quiet, shame-faced grin. He shot House a grateful look but shook his head. "You don't have to fix it, much as the role reversal appeals to me."

"Figured I'd put it out there," House replied with a shrug. "I'm still hungry."

"That's more like it," Wilson exclaimed. "I knew it had to be about you somehow."

House snorted. "Duh. I don't do good deeds."

"Yeah, you do."

House feigned affront. "Do not. Perish the thought."

Wilson gave himself a moment for second thoughts, then said, "You're a good guy, House. Don't knock it."

House tilted his head to regard him quizzically. Eventually, he just muttered, "Sap," at him, and lumbered to his feet. He recovered the donuts that Wilson had taken to the kitchen, then came back to watch more cartoons, oblivious while Wilson blinked and wrestled his thoughts into some semblance of order. Wilson kept an eye on him, pretending not to look, until House huffed at the ceiling in exasperation and declared, "You're giving me a complex. Do I have sprinkles in my ear or something?"

"No," Wilson replied as he looked away.

House stared at him for a second in full-blown diagnostic mode. "What did you do?"

"Nothing." Wilson ran his shirt fabric through otherwise idle fingers.

"Hm. Now you're lying. A big lie that you only managed to find need for after I took a shower." His voice hardened a lowered a few decibels. "What did you do?"

"I…I have to go." Wilson stumbled off the couch and made a wobbly beeline for his shoes and the door, heedless of the fact that he was clad in pajama pants and an undershirt.

"What?"

Wilson heard House getting to his feet behind him and crammed his toes into his loafers, his coat already in hand, groping on the desk for his car keys. All he could concentrate on was getting out of there before House realized that he had gone behind his back and called his mom, just so that he could make her cry and pry House's business from her. Even in Wilson's comparatively happy-go-lucky universe, that was a serious breach of trust, the kind that flowers and candy hearts couldn't fix. (Or in House's case, matchbox cars and alcohol.) Part of being in a relationship meant one had to respect the other person's boundaries, whether they made sense or not. Wilson, of all people, should have an acute sense of boundaries, considering that House went out of his way to trample such things in the most blatant ways imaginable, and Wilson often reciprocated in kind. But this wasn't a prank or a pilfered lunch; House would not forgive him for it.

"Hafta go," Wilson repeated. Now, he was having a panic attack, and the earlier dose of Xanax barely helped him stave it off. He finally fumbled his car keys into his hands, but House slammed his palm against the door to stop him from leaving. Wilson jumped, but twisted the knob anyway, like House wasn't blocking his escape.

"Wilson, you can't drive like this."

This was a perfectly reasonable observation, and Wilson knew it, but he wanted to leave. The surest way to get House out of the doorway was to piss him off, so Wilson just attacked. House would call his mother in another few minutes anyway, and then he'd know. More importantly, Wilson needed House to move now. "I called your mom." He could hear the note of hysteria in his own voice. "She told me about ice water and castor oil and digging holes in the yard in January and spending nights under the porch and how he left you to get a sunburn so bad it blistered when you wouldn't come inside when he called and how he dragged you to the basement to teach you lessons on manners cuz you were difficult – "

The hand over Wilson's mouth took him by surprise, and then he squeezed his eyes shut and blindly lashed out, still yelling something behind rough fingers. House spun him around and then dragged him in against his stomach, curved over Wilson's back to best hold him without getting a heel in the shin for his troubles. Wilson couldn't think beyond the terror and he kept thrashing, half aware that he'd fallen to his knees and that House was still more or less smothering him so that he didn't hurt himself. His arms were crossed over his chest now, House's grip on his wrists painful. He felt hot breath against his ear and figured that House was speaking, but the pound of blood in his head drowned out whatever angry words he was hissing there, and Wilson's blood pressure spiked…

"That's right. Breathe. Come on."

Wilson blinked. House knelt behind him, vertically spooning on the uneven ground, comfortably warm all around Wilson's body. Wilson gulped in as much cool air as his lungs could hold and tried to do what House told him, quaking in his grasp. One of House's huge hands was wrapped around both of Wilson's wrists, trapping them firmly over his belly button; the other ran soothing paths along Wilson's neck and the side of his face, pausing at intervals to discretely measure his pulse. It had been months since Wilson had an attack like that, since the first few weeks after the bus crash when he woke up in a cold sweat convinced that House had died too and left him alone, responsible for it. Cuddy had found him in a ball under his sink when she stopped by with a casserole and condolences; he had no recollection of it.

"Shhh…no, you stay right here."

Wilson stopped squirming, his chest heaving, mouth hanging open. His eyes fixed on his flannel pants, stretched taut over his bony knees. Blue plaid. Four shades of blue. Gingham…or tartan…tarter sauce. He was hungry but hollow and he must have thrown up. Couldn't smell it though…nose clogged, eyes streaming. He's okay now, mostly. He's okay, there's no yelling. House isn't yelling. God, this is embarrassing. He's a grown man crumpled on the floor, terrified of nothing.

House released his wrists now that he had quieted, and hugged him properly from behind. Wilson was too shaken to do anything except go rigid in his embrace, but House merely squeezed a bit tighter and gently kissed the side of his face. "You're okay, Wilson. Nothing bad is gonna happen."

"You don't do comfort," Wilson croaked.

"It's different when you run outside and try to get mowed down by a car."

"Out…" Holy shit. They were on asphalt between two parked cars. Wilson craned his neck to see the sidewalk over House's shoulder.

"Nobody saw," House assured him. "Except maybe the nosey old biddy across the hall. She likes to window watch, but she's practically blind. Oh, and the driver probably caught a glimpse of you, but that one's a toss-up." He rubbed his cheek against Wilson's neck. "Are you better now?"

Besides shivering on the cold ground, and feeling drained, he was fine. House holding him was probably the reason for that. Wilson nodded, still too shaken to be properly mortified by this.

House propped his chin on Wilson's shoulder. "See, this is why I didn't wanna tell you all the sordid details."

"You…predicted me having a panic attack?" His incredulity fell flat.

"No. I predicted you picturing it." House sighed. "I didn't want you thinking about me like that. It's pathetic."

Wilson swallowed, his mind automatically filing the choice of the word pathetic away to think about later. "How mad are you?"

"I'm not mad. You just took all the fun out of loosing my temper."

Wilson laughed, breathless and giddy. He couldn't hold it, though, and his features went slack. "I'm sorry. I should have just let you have your space. I had no right to confront her."

House's mouth quirked even though he remained stoic. "Yeah, well I think you learned your lesson." They didn't speak for a few minutes, and then out of the blue, House said, "It's nice."

Wilson turned his head. "What is?"

"You know." House gestured at random. "That you care. I just…don't know what to do with it."

Wilson grasped the hand that already, perhaps by design, rested over his sternum. "You're doing just fine with it."

"Cool. Does that mean the Hallmark moment's over? My leg hurts."

Wilson rolled his eyes hip before disentangling himself. He laid a playful punch on House's shoulder though for his smart ass remark.

"Hey, hands off the cripple."

Wilson reached down to help House to his feet; a glance revealed no cane in sight. "You do realize you probably just saved my life, right?"

"Pfft." House waved him off and gimp-stepped up onto the sidewalk. "I save lives all the time. Now if we could bet that against your death-sentence thank you's, I might be able to recoup my losses."

"No way. Those bets are my only chance at getting you to pay me back for fifteen years worth of food and alcohol. And aggravation."

House smirked over his shoulder. "That's what the sex is for."

Wilson pursed his lips and followed House back inside. "And you call me the man-whore."

House shrugged. "Peas in a pod." He stopped abruptly and turned, shoving his nose right up to Wilson's, intent. "Don't ever do that to me again."

Before Wilson could puzzle out which offense House was referring to – harassing his mom or skipping out into traffic – House disappeared inside. Wilson merely smiled to himself and followed.

* * *

The next hour flew by in a series of awkward moments and too curious glances, treading on eggshells even though they'd called a truce. House forbade Wilson to come with him to see his mom, which Wilson considered reasonable. What bothered Wilson more was the quiet snick of the apartment door closing a minute later. He padded to the kitchen doorway and peered into the empty living room; House hadn't bothered to say he was leaving. After worrying that fact for a few minutes over a sink full of dirty dishes, Wilson merely sighed. He could only imagine what sort of conversation House and his mom would have now that Wilson had dragged the issue out into the open. If the only consequence Wilson suffered for it was a half-assed bout of the silent treatment, so be it. Wilson was the one who forced him into dealing with it at all.

The apartment felt strange without House in it. Wilson had been there alone several times, but only when he got home before House or House had to go back to the hospital in the middle of the night. He hadn't simply hung out there in House's absence before, but since Blythe was at his apartment and he didn't know how long she would be staying, Wilson didn't really have anywhere else to go.

First things first, Wilson needed a shower something fierce. On top of the sleep-stink that clung to him, he also caught a whiff of sweat and exhaust from being on the ground outside. When he stepped into the shower, he grinned because the blue dildo was still there. Then he wondered if House had left it there on purpose since he had already been in this morning. And of course, after that, Wilson pictured him maybe using it for himself, even though he knew intellectually that House wouldn't be able to hold the stance because of his leg. Still, he imagined it.

Hot water did the rest and Wilson closed his eyes at the mental image of House being where Wilson had been just some hours ago. He ran his left hand down his body and braced the other against the wall while he teased himself, scraping trimmed nails over his balls and imagining House watching him, pale blue eyes and an inscrutable stare. Wilson exhaled and wrapped his hand around himself. He kneaded his erection gently and then reached for the shower gel. With a dollop of Lever 2000 for lubrication, the entire process ended quickly. Wilson stood still for a second afterwards, blinking in the spray. It had almost…sucked. He'd been spoiled too much lately. For a man with mobility issues, hopped up on opiates, House's libido nearly outstripped Wilson's, which was a great thing unless House wasn't around.

Wilson finished rinsing and stepped out. He grabbed House's towel instead of his own and pretty much inhaled it while he dried his face. Steam prevented him from contemplating his reflection just yet, so Wilson pried open the medicine cabinet in search of aspirin for the ache in his legs from crashing into first the apartment floor, and then the pavement. What he found was a bottle of Xanax.

When House had handed him one earlier, Wilson honestly hadn't thought about where it came from. It looked like it had come from House's private stash. He checked the label on the bottle to see when it was prescribed, figuring that Doctor Ngyen had adjusted whatever regimen House was on, though he didn't know why Xanax would be a good choice to add to the existing cocktail. It was older than that, though. Much older. Wilson blinked. Someone he had never heard of prescribed it to House perhaps two weeks after his dad's funeral. It looked like House had taken a few doses, then given up on it around the same time that he and Wilson started to more or less see each other.

Wilson sighed at the bottle before putting it back. He knew better than to bring it up with House, even though the medication wasn't hidden. House wouldn't consider it snooping, just…he wouldn't see a need for discussion. In fact, it had never been Wilson's snooping or butting in that got on House's nerves; it was Wilson's propensity to try to talk it to death afterwards, to analyze it and extrapolate House's motivations or feelings or… For god's sake, didn't House realize that Wilson only made assumptions because House didn't offer him anything else?

Out in the living room, dressed in sweatpants and a PPTH sweatshirt, Wilson booted up his computer and logged onto the internet. He paused in his favorites list, considered bringing up patient files to work on, then clicked the Google logo instead. He searched for child abuse but only found articles of specific cases and sites for support groups and information on reporting it. While he wasn't sure what he was looking for, it wasn't that, so he changed the search to "creative" child abuse because it sounded like John and Blythe had used creative means against their son, rather than standard physical abuse. All that offered him were creative therapies for children taken from abusive homes. Wilson had done all the required psych rotations, and he kept current on his certifications. If there were anything useful to him there, he would already know it.

Wilson deleted his search criteria and stared for second, undecided. Then he googled BDSM. An hour's worth of Wikipedia linked articles later, Wilson wasn't sure if he was horny or disturbed. He was definitely more curious, so he went back and googled bondage. The perfect stereotype set him off further searching in that arena, as he stared wide-eyed and horrified at a picture on some Norwegian Dungeon Master's site of some guy with over a dozen clothes pins clipped to his scrotum. He couldn't hit the back arrow fast enough.

He tried searching for sexual submission next, and then sub/dom, only to find dozens of ads from people looking for submissive or dominant partners. Wilson refrained from banging his head on the keyboard and tried for a last ditch search of "S&M" even though metal bondage and pain were certainly not House's turn-ons.

"Yes!" Wilson clicked at an innocuous link that said the main site included articles pertaining to the BDSM lifestyle. He found himself on "Leather and Roses" and sure enough, just after the age warning, he found a list of topic links and informative articles. Some of the articles were even written by psychologists. Wilson devoured a number of texts about sub/dom relationships, though he wasn't sure it applied to whatever had happened between him and House the night before. It did back up House's assertion that his interest stemmed from his need to trust Wilson. The article, though, stressed open and unambiguous communication as an integral part of that sort of play. House was allergic to communicating like that. And all the talk of power exchanges and consensual slavery turned Wilson off all the way.

He was on the verge of closing the site when another article caught his eye: Psychological Dimensions of Masochistic Surrender. He clicked it, though he was hardly interested at this point, and had pretty much already given up on finding anything useful on the internet. Some woman psychologist had written this one, though, so he began to skim through it. It didn't talk about inflicting pain, or about bending to someone's will or categorizing types of relationships. It was written by a therapist who treated sexual addictions, and had found herself with several ashamed masochists for patients. She described submission as liberating for a person who couldn't, under any other circumstances, let down their walls far enough or long enough to feel "normal." Or to feel less than perfect at all. Then she discussed the feelings of shame that masochists expressed to her, and how even though they craved the sort of release that submission offered, they often still considered themselves "sick." Talk about the "false self" that a submissive presented to the world in order to gain respect, or her observation that most submissives she met in her practice were highly successful, driven people at the tops of their professional games, under immense stress to continue, at all costs, to remain successful… She could have been talking about House. Why weren't there more articles like this out there, written by professionals?

Wilson neared the end of the article and had to pause to re-read one set of lines. The intensity of the masochism is a living testimonial of the urgency with which some buried part of the personality is screaming to be released. The deeper yearning is a longing to be reached, known and accepted in a safe environment which narcissistic, dysfunctional or preoccupied parents were unable to provide the child at a young age.

After sitting back to contemplate that for a moment, Wilson printed the entire article and then hid it in his briefcase, between stacks of loose filing. Hopefully, he wouldn't forget that it was there before he passed it all on to his assistant. He flagged the site for later before shutting the computer down because he had noticed some articles geared toward people with physical handicaps, not that House would ever so much as contemplate reading them.

Wilson puttered around the apartment for a few hours, ignoring the TV even though he had turned it on, and then ended up stripping House's bed to do a load of laundry. With an armful of dirty blankets and sheets, he nearly tripped over the box of sex toys and ended up sprawled half on the bed to keep from falling. He swore as he collected himself and stomped off to start the washing machine. He nearly toppled out of his own skin when he came back to find House in the living room, just standing in front of the closed door, his back to Wilson.

"You're back."

House turned a fraction and Wilson took in his stooped profile, the way House's palm slid down the door and then flopped to hang at his side. He canted so far to the right that he must have been supporting more than just half his weight on the cane.

Hesitant, Wilson asked, "How was your mom? I, um…" He raised a hand to knead the back of his neck. "I hope I didn't upset her too much."

In a small voice, House said, "I took her to the airport. She wanted to stay longer but I told her…I wanted her to go."

Wilson looked off to the left and then settled his eyes on the floor. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, House."

"I thought you only called her cuz you thought you had a right to know," House went on as if Wilson hadn't apologized. "I thought you just wanted… But she said you were pissed."

Wilson shrugged uncomfortably. "I am pissed."

"She said you told her she had no right raising a child if she was just doing it so her husband could play with an interactive punching bag."

"Um…yeah." Wilson vaguely recalled saying something like that.

"Did you mean it?"

Wilson didn't even have to think about that one. "Yeah, I meant it. I'm not sorry for saying it, I'm just sorry it ended up hurting you."

House turned to face him, his head tilted, puzzled. "Nobody ever stood up for me before."

"That's…" Wilson shook his head, at a loss, then settled on, "That's sad."

"I know."

They stared at each other for a few moments, and then House headed for the couch like nothing was wrong. Wilson watched him ease down, leather cushions creaking over the hum of the television, and then he asked, "So…what did she say about…?" Wilson gestured even though House wasn't looking in his direction, and left the question open.

House heaved a weary sigh. "Exactly what I thought she would. She defended him."

"That's why you've never confronted her, isn't it. You were afraid she'd side with him."

"I knew she'd side with him. She always sided with him."

Wilson acknowledged that with a troubled nod, then swallowed. "Do you want me to leave? I understand if you want some space."

House twisted around to peer at him over the back of the couch, then shook his head in silence.

"Okay. It's a little early, but I'll go make some dinner." Anything just to keep his hands busy.

House settled to stare at the television, though Wilson doubted he paid the program any attention. After watching him sit in perfect stillness for nearly a minute, Wilson shuffled out of the room. He felt terrible for putting House through that, and he couldn't honestly say that he thought it was better to have it in the open instead of quietly gnawing House to pieces. At least denial could shield him from it. Now, House even looked raw.

Wilson set some water to boil a few cups of rice and chopped vegetables for a stir fry; his wok had migrated to House's months ago, and it saw regular use now that Wilson spent all his free time here. He focused his thoughts on seasoning and oils, and caramelizing onions.

Once the concoction was good to simmer for a while, Wilson wandered back into the living room and crossed his arms with the spatula sticking out of one fist. "Can I do anything? You want a drink?"

"Can't drink anymore," House murmured. "Too many drug interactions."

Wilson tried again. "A soda? Water?"

"You're getting weird about it."

"You'll have that," Wilson acknowledged.

"I don't need you breaking out the kid gloves."

"So help me out here. Tell me what I can do for you."

House shifted on the couch and glanced up. His eyes tripped down to rest on the spatula. Wilson's followed automatically; he was dripping oil residue on the floor. "Oh." As he turned to go back to the kitchen, though, House grabbed his forearm and held him there for a moment. Then he slowly clambered to his feet and pushed Wilson back far enough that he could get out from in front of the couch. His eyes darted about without really looking at Wilson's face, then settled pointedly on the spatula for a moment before he released Wilson and turned around. It took Wilson several failed attempts at reorganizing reality to process when House unfastened and dropped his jeans, and then kneeled heavily, draping himself over the arm of the couch.

Wilson stepped in place and glanced away several times. As if to answer his uncertainties, he watched a deep, shamed flush spread across House's cheeks before he buried his face in the crook of his elbow and went still, waiting. There was no doubt over what House was asking him to do but Wilson stood immobile behind him, too stunned to even utter a syllable of protest. He watched the flush spread to House's ears and along the back of his neck, worse in the face of Wilson's silence. Just to reassure him that Wilson wasn't rejecting the request outright, he took a step closer and placed his palm between House's shoulder blades. House flinched the slightest bit and then breathed out sharply. He squirmed before he settled again.

It took Wilson a few tries before he worked up enough saliva to unglue his tongue and speak. "You know that nothing he did was your fault, right?"

Into his elbow, House mumbled, "I know. Doesn't matter."

"No, I suppose it doesn't." It still hurts. "House – "

"Please don't say it, please."

Leaving aside the fact that House couldn't possibly know what Wilson would have said, he stopped talking.

"I know it's not my fault that he wanted to do those things, I know that, Wilson. But it doesn't change the fact that I could have said something about it, and I could have found a way to get him to stop, and I didn't. I just kept my mouth shut and I let him keep doing it. That part is my fault."

"No it's not!" Wilson had struck even before he thought about it and the impact resonated through the rubber grip of the metal spatula while the clap still flopped about the room. He stopped himself from swearing out a sordid apology because he could only imagine how mortifying it must have been for House to be kneeling there to begin with, his bare ass hanging out, practically begging Wilson to hit him. How much worse would it be if Wilson expressed any sort of disgust?

House had recoiled at the blow, but he straightened himself out and quickly resumed his previous position, his hands clutching the edges of the cushion where he hid his face. He breathed a bit harder than before, his ribs expanding and contracting, but it seemed like being struck soothed him. Wilson tried to recall his reading from earlier in the day, reflecting that only luck had led him there before this happened. Shame and need, intermingled in a desperate bid for relief, for freedom from the shell that the person could not otherwise force themselves to break through – that was how the psychologist had characterized the masochistic mind. It wasn't about loving pain; it was about submitting to someone else's strength, because the person couldn't fall alone.

Wilson wished that he could say he chose to do this because he wanted to, but under the circumstances, his need to bring comfort at any cost drove him to give in to House's unspoken plea. He reminded himself that it wasn't common, but it wasn't sick either. And the fact that House was willing to risk the humiliation of being rejected for this…well that pretty much cinched it for him.

Wilson massaged the back of his neck for a second, digging his fingers in as if he could gouge out his discomfort, and then sighed. "Alright." He switched the spatula to his other hand long enough to sort of palm at House's flank. "Scoot up a bit more. Put your weight on your chest so your leg doesn't cramp up." He could hardly believe he was doing this, and part of his brain detached to watch from a distance.

House complied without a word and grumbled in apparent relief. Once he had settled as comfortably as possible, Wilson ran his hand down House's back and kneaded his buttocks to bring the blood to the surface, to cushion the blows. He didn't want to leave marks and he could use less force without lessening the sting. House relaxed under his touch and molded his front over the couch, his respirations evening out.

"Tell me if you need to stop."

House nodded into the couch.

"You're sure about this?"

Wilson didn't get a response to that one, but he figured he didn't need one, considering that House hadn't moved. Wilson took the spatula back in his dominant hand and braced his other between House's shoulder blades, not so much holding him down as adding a symbolic restraint. Or maybe it was just because Wilson needed to touch him in some tender way to reassure himself that he only did this because he cared.

At the first smack, House grunted and curled more tightly over the couch arm. Wilson added more force to the second one and pressed harder between House's shoulders when he squirmed. "That okay?"

House groaned out an affirmative and relaxed again.

It was surreal, watching his arm swing down, the metal spatula flashing in the diluted light from the other room. Wilson counted one-one-thousand between each hit, fully cognizant of the way House huffed out sudden breaths and how his air hitched on the inhale, sometimes whimpering when Wilson struck him just right, other times hardly reacting at all. Wilson's right arm pushed him firmly into the couch and he could feel House's muscles rippling under his palm. They both breathed heavily, Wilson's bicep growing sore after what felt like an incredibly short time. Eventually, he realized that House had tensed so much that his knees weren't even resting on the floor anymore, and every time the spatula hit, he curled forward abruptly with a sharp cry. For all intents, it looked like he was humping the couch.

Wilson paused and straightened to crack his back, his gaze straying from House's rear to the rest of him. He leaned to one side and reached under House's body to find his suspicions confirmed; House had a significant erection. When Wilson felt it out, House grunted and stuttered out something that may have included words, save for the couch that he kept his head buried in. He breathed more harshly, though, and his back arched just enough to display how aroused he was.

Wilson twisted to set the spatula on the coffee table and then lightly stroked House's back. He dug his fingers in around House's shoulders, then massaged along his spine until he reached the reddened skin at his tailbone. "House? I'm gonna ask you something, and I need just a yes or no answer. It's important, okay?"

House raised his head just enough for Wilson to see the side of his face; House's swollen, pink eyes dismayed him, but House didn't seem fazed by it.

"The…abuse. Was it ever sexual?"

"No."

Wilson nodded and House stuck his nose back into the crook of his arm. "Wait here. I'll be right back."

Wilson padded softly out of the room and down the hall to the bathroom, where he eased the door shut. His legs wobbled and gave out, and he slid down the door until he reached the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest. Then he curled over and let out a quiet sob, torn between his conscience calling him a horrible asshole, and the rest of him getting off on knowing that House had become aroused by Wilson's treatment. He had no time to come to terms with it; House was waiting out in the living room, completely pliant, seemingly content to just let Wilson do whatever he chose. After swiping his sleeves over his eyes and taking a few deep breaths, Wilson climbed back to his feet and rummaged about in the medicine cabinet for a bottle of lubricant. Then he stood facing the closed bathroom door to make sure that he was collected enough to leave before he reached for the handle.

House hadn't moved, though he had settled some of his weight on the floor again. Wilson walked up and kneeled behind him, threatened by tears at the sight of the mottled flesh before him. "Are you still okay?"

House lifted his head without showing Wilson his face. "Are you?"

"Yeah. I think so."

"Then yeah."

"Okay." Wilson uncrossed House's ankles and took his shoes off, then removed his jeans and boxers the rest of the way. Then he scooted closer. House helpfully spread his knees wider on the floor and Wilson leaned in to press his lips to House's waist, then to the tip of his hip bone. He rose up a bit and stretched over House to grasp the arm of the couch on either side of him, then covered him and mouthed at the nape of his neck. House shuddered and let out a shaky breath, pressing his buttocks into Wilson's stomach. He kept his head bowed, his forehead resting on his folded arms as Wilson shimmied higher on his body and gently pressed his clothed groin against House's ass. Wilson reached around to grip House's cock, finding it just as hard as when he had walked out, and House pushed forward into his grip with a rumbling sigh.

Wilson backed up to get his sweats and his boxers off, then moved back in and settled his cock in the cleft of House's ass, rubbing softly against his bright skin. If it hurt at all, House gave no outward sign, but Wilson tried to keep his touch gentle just the same. He worked his way down House's back and then made a face when he realized that the grease from the spatula had flavored House's skin with teriyaki and herbs. The stir fry would be good, once he added the rice.

"What are you laughing at?"

Wilson raised his head and grabbed the lube from the floor. "Your ass tastes like my wok."

"That only sounds marginally less dirty than it really is."

Wilson's eyebrows waggled in a burst of amusement, and then he tipped the lube bottle to dribble some down House's backside.

"Hmph. Cold."

Wilson ran his fingers through the slick line of fluid and set the bottle aside. House angled his hips to give Wilson easier access and Wilson stroked his anus a few times before he eased a finger inside. He twisted to run his last knuckle along the tight outer ring of muscle and then gently pressed further in, past the second ring, until the webs between his fingers grazed the puckered opening. He stroked House's prostate with the pad of his finger and House's breath hitched as he twitched into the sensation. There was no resistance to Wilson's probing; House was as relaxed as he ever got, so Wilson added a second finger, and then joined it with a third less than a minute later. Wilson reached between House's legs to grasp his penis, and every soft nudge to House's prostate sent his hips jerking forward. House moaned low in his throat and his body heaved over the arm of the couch as he gasped and breathed through Wilson's attentions.

For his own part, Wilson was slightly less enthusiastic, but the sight still turned him on. He drew his fingers from House's body and used the lube that coated them to slick up his penis. He had to tug at himself a few times before he worked up enough hardness to take it any further, but the inviting site before him helped a great deal. House could barely remain still with Wilson's hand cinched about his cock, denying him friction but putting just enough pressure around the shaft to keep him suspended. Wilson shifted his grip to press his thumb against the sweet spot under the head and House folded hard over the couch arm, tensed and whimpering like a basket of puppies as Wilson drew tiny circles, the tip of his fingernail nudging House's foreskin. An ecstatic whine trembled from House's lips and he threw his head back, his back arched off the couch, eyelids fluttering shut.

Wilson closed back in at that point and draped himself over House's back, pressing him back down onto the cushion. He grasped House's wrists and folded his arms against his chest, embracing him and restraining him at the same time, trapping both their arms under House's body. House made a needy sound and purred as Wilson's weight settled on top of him, and Wilson shuffled his knees until he had enough leverage with which to thrust. He angled his hips to press his tip against House's opening, sliding through leftover lube to find it, and then nudged his way inside. House grunted and his breath slid out of rhythm, his torso flexing in Wilson's grip.

Wilson came to rest, their bodies flush, and tried to recall if he had ever topped from behind like this. He didn't think he had, and it was a totally different experience. He could see the tendons standing out all along House's neck, the sweat beading at his hairline. Then there were House's thighs shivering on either side of Wilson's, his back rounding to meet Wilson's stomach, the way he angled his pelvis and circled his hips with his buttocks cradled in the creases where Wilson's legs joined his body, breathing in the constricted space inside of Wilson's arms, his feet brushing Wilson's calves as he shifted while trying to stay still. Wilson felt the tendons in House's wrists shift as he made fists and tried to use the leverage of his upper body to lift his ass and suck Wilson's cock in deeper.

Wilson didn't move for an interminable amount of time; he was too caught up in the subtle variations and movements of the man in his arms, slowly coming undone in complete stillness. Eventually, neither of them could have stood to be immobile any longer and Wilson pulled almost all of the way out. He pushed back in, torturously slow, then repeated, pushing forward as firmly as he could, holding even after he met too much resistance to penetrate deeper, gently shoving House against the side of the couch and keeping him pressed there for a few seconds before he withdrew and thrust again, his toes digging into the floor. The action left House gulping back moans as Wilson squished him repeatedly, ever so softly, against the leather.

A few minutes of this was all Wilson could take. He could feel the ache in his balls intensify as he fought to maintain the lazy pace. In his grasp, House shuddered without cessation, breathing erratically, his mouth hanging open and subject to random bursts of sound. Wilson increased his tempo and switched to rapid, shallow thrusts that soon left him breathless as he mouthed the side of House's neck, laving his tongue through stubble and dried tears that had trickled all over his face. House panted and clamped his mouth shut, his face shoved into the couch cushion as Wilson pumped into him from behind, striking his prostate almost every time.

Wilson felt it when House hit the edge, his rectum clenching all about Wilson's cock and then rippling as House tossed his head back and bit his lip on a sultry moan. Wilson tightened his grip on House's body and kept moving as House spasmed and cried out again, his back arching, body flexing beneath Wilson's, elongating over the couch cushion amidst a helpless gasp, and then every muscle in his body tensed and he humped the couch with Wilson still drilling him, dragging in ragged gulps of air at uneven intervals. At what he deemed the halfway point, Wilson pushed in as far as he could manage and trapped House's lower body against the couch so that he couldn't move except to squirm, Wilson's tip lodged against his prostate, milking him. House gasped several harsh, startled breaths and then keened, digging his feet into the floor to try to obtain some sort of movement, something to lessen the fire inundating his nervous system. Wilson wouldn't let him back off from it, and finally, House thrashed in Wilson's arms, desperate half-moans and high-pitched yelps ripping themselves from the far reaches of House's throat, and he threw himself face down on the couch to sob and writhe with total abandon, at Wilson's mercy.

After nearly a minute, it tapered off and Wilson eased back, thoroughly turned on and in desperate need himself. He hadn't tried that before, though he had read about it, and god… With House sagging limp against the couch arm, Wilson adjusted himself and drove hard and fast, curled over House's pliant body, until pressure exploded at the base of his cock, his balls drawn up taut against his body. Wilson huffed out a surprised exclamation and went rigid, then gasped and emptied himself, shivering under the onslaught, probably bruising House's wrists, he squeezed so fiercely. Exhausted though he was, House tried to move with him, to help him along, clenching his ass around Wilson's cock to give him more pressure, more texture.

Wilson let out a hitched moan as the pleasure trickled off, then pulled House down off the couch with him, wrapping around him on the floor in something more than spooning. They caught their breath in short spurts, gulping air to cool their seared lungs, groaning occasionally to be so sated, so completely wrecked. It took Wilson several minutes to realize that he was still holding House's wrists in place against his stomach, but House showed no inclination to pull free. Endorphins left Wilson dopey and heavy-lidded, and he lifted his head with a soft purr to mouth along House's jugular, exhaling long breaths in between with his lips just resting on House's skin. The sweat evaporated from their bodies and left Wilson cold, though House burrowed into him and seemed perfectly content with the room's temperature, perhaps on account of his Wilson blanket.

Wilson smiled at that thought and nudged House's legs with his knee. "I have to check on dinner."

"Mmph."

"How are you doing?"

House inhaled, his breath still shaky. "Much better."

Wilson nodded and kissed his temple, half afraid that House would shy or shrug him off. He did neither. "Come on. We have to get up before the rice water burns off."

"Wilson?"

Wilson paused, propped on his elbow, and leaned over House's shoulder for a glimpse of his face. He'd bitten his lip bloody. "Yeah?"

House blinked his eyes open and started to say something, but Wilson could see the veil descend once again to cut him off, to protect him from whatever the outside world might inflict. He turned his head away and mumbled, "Never mind. I smell burning."

"House – "

"I don't wanna talk."

Wilson nodded. "Okay. I won't make you." They untangled themselves and Wilson helped House stand, then pressed his cane into his hand. As House limped away toward the bathroom, Wilson felt compelled to call out, "You know I love you, right? No matter what you…no matter anything?"

House turned just enough for Wilson to see the scowl, and it was not a playful one. He kept his head bowed, chin near his chest, and snarled, "Love is a dirty word. I'd just as soon not hear you apply it to me."

Wilson stood there dumbstruck as House disappeared into the bathroom and slammed the door. The living room bore evidence of their dysfunctional rendezvous, but Wilson had ended up feeling good about it, encouraged even, until House delivered his parting remark. Confused and hurt, Wilson dragged his sweats back on and padded back to the kitchen to rescue dinner.

* * *

A/N: The website for Leather and Roses, and specifically the article I quoted, can be found via Google. This thing won't let me post the link. It is a very well-thought, helpful and informative site concerning the BDSM lifestyle.