Disclaimer: Oh, House! Oh, Wilson! I wish I could compose a few couplets about my lack of ownership of you. But, then again, who'd want to read that?
Luckily, Wilson's day was very busy, and he (mostly) didn't have the chance to think about seeing House that night.
He spent the hour from five to six catching up on charting, or, at least trying to. His concentration was almost non-existent, which was understandable, if frustrating. He kept looking at his watch.
He estimated it would take about ten minutes to walk to the re-hab facility from his office. At 5:45 he was ready to jump out of his own skin, so he packed up his things, locked his office and even stopped at the men's room, just to kill some time.
He started the walk at precisely 5:48, and he wound up outside House's room at 5:58. Two minutes is an eternity, he thought. He paced outside, giving his most empathetic smile to the parade of hospital personnel who passed by.
He glanced at his phone. 6:01. Here goes nothing.
He knocked and heard a gruff "Come in." He pushed through the door and immediately turned around and locked it, without looking at House. He wasn't sure what reaction he would get, but he wanted House to know they'd be alone.
He turned back around to face the room. House was sitting up on the bed with his back against the headboard, and he was covered with a sheet from the waist down. Out of the corner of his eye, Wilson saw a flash of metal – the prosthesis. It was leaning against the nightstand, within House's reach, in almost the same spot where he would have kept the cane.
Wilson decided starting out with a discussion about that wouldn't be a good idea. So, he ignored the 800-pound gorilla in the room and walked quickly over to the other side of House's bed. He sat down.
"So, Wil – "
House's voice was cut off by Wilson's mouth smashing down on his mouth. House had a fleeting thought that he should stop it, but it quickly went away as Wilson probed him with an eager tongue and House began to reciprocate.
After several minutes, Wilson broke off the kiss and began traveling down House's neck, kissing and nipping. When he got to the join of his shoulder, he paused just long enough to pull House's t-shirt over his head. He began feasting on House's collarbone and shoulders. He traveled down his chest, pushing away the sheet. House was wearing shorts. They were long enough that they went down below the site of the amputation on the right. As Wilson traveled down House's abdomen, he pulled at the waistband. Even though House was moaning, he had enough presence of mind to lift his butt.
Wilson noticed that House used his left leg and his right arm to push himself up. He set that observation aside and continued to travel toward House's cock. It was standing at attention. Wilson took House's cock in one hand, and pulled the foreskin back with the other and began licking the tip. House moaned a little louder.
House had been so swept away by what Wilson was doing, he hadn't noticed Wilson get undressed. He also didn't see where Wilson got the lube he was currently applying to House's opening. All he felt was the pleasure of that orifice being stimulated.
He then felt one of Wilson's fingers slip inside him, and then a second. And then that spot was being caressed and, oh God, there was nothing else.
As his abdominal muscles started to tense, his felt the air hit his cock, which Wilson had allowed to slip from his mouth. House had no time to protest as Wilson eased out his fingers and replaced them with his cock.
The thrusts found just the right place to hit, and Wilson's hand applied just the right amount of pressure and the exact right rhythm as it traveled up and down House's cock. When Wilson exploded inside, House could no longer hold back. He came fast and hard and so much, like he'd never cum before in his life.
They were both still shuddering when Wilson slipped out and collapsed on top of House. He draped himself over House's body and rested the side of his face against the side of House's face. Their arms were around each other, and it was heaven.
House wasn't sure how long they'd been lying together like that, when he felt Wilson stir. Wilson lifted his head, looked for a moment into House's eyes and smiled.
Now, the smiles Wilson gave to most people were socially required, hence what House considered phony, or at least not reflective of Wilson's true feelings. The smiles Wilson gave to House did display his true emotions. They were usually restrained and held either irony or sadness.
But, the smile on Wilson's face right now was big, beautiful, completely open, and very much a rarity. Wilson bent his head down and gave House a soft kiss.
He got up, went to the bathroom and brought out a wash cloth. He cleaned both of them up and returned to the bathroom. When he emerged, he was in one of House's old t-shirts and a pair of shorts.
"Nice legs," House grunted.
"Thanks," Wilson acknowledged, ducking his head slightly.
Before they had a chance to talk about anything, the generic text ringtone went off on Wilson's phone. He looked at the message and quickly texted back.
He told House he'd be right back and left.
When Wilson returned, he was carrying a pizza box and a plastic container with antipasto. He set it on the nightstand on the other side of the bed from the one with the prosthesis propped against it.
House turned to sit on the side of the bed, his legs, or rather his leg, dangling off the side. Wilson would have to get used to that. House had managed to pull his shorts back on, but he remained shirtless.
"Wilson, get me my t-shirt," House demanded and pointed. Wilson's gaze followed House's finger. Apparently, in his haste to get House unclothed, Wilson had tossed it across the room, and House apparently hadn't wanted to try to get it himself.
Of course, Wilson had no idea how House was progressing. Maybe he couldn't walk well enough yet with the prosthesis to get up and retrieve the t-shirt himself. Or, it could just be that House was his usual imperious self. He'd never hesitated to get Wilson to wait on him when he could.
While Wilson debated in his mind whether he was going to fetch the shirt or not, he looked back around and really noticed for the first time how muscular House's upper body had become. Must be from the PT, Wilson surmised.
"Don't cover up on my account," he stated softly. He sat down on the bed next to House and ran his hands over House's shoulders and back and then his arms and his pecs. He saw goose bumps wherever his hands traveled.
House, who was obviously uncomfortable from the attention, cleared his throat. "The pizza's getting cold."
"Uh-uh," Wilson acknowledged vacantly. He continued to caress House.
"Wilson!" House's voice was much sharper this time.
"Okay," Wilson agreed reluctantly as he stopped. His hands trailed across House's belly as he got up to retrieve the antipasto. House could feel the warmth of Wilson's fingertips even after he moved away. It made things below his waist tighten in a very pleasing fashion.
At some point, he'd have to figure out a way to get Wilson to do it again. Without actually asking him, of course. What fun would that be?
His focus returned to the food as they passed the salad container back and forth, and then they ate the pizza. House devoured three slices in the time it took Wilson to finish one.
"Hungry?" Wilson asked with a sardonic note in his voice, as House reached for his fourth slice.
"You get worked to death all day and be unable to eat the slop they give you and see how full you are."
"You don't look underfed, though," Wilson said, eying House's muscularity again. "In fact, you look like they feed you steak at least twice a day."
Wilson's look made House feel both awkward and wanted at the same time. He scoffed as a deflection. "Steak? Seriously?"
"Well, you're doing something right. Very right."
"Just knock it off, okay?"
"What?"
"The whole 'you're sexy' thing. I know that isn't true. It hasn't been since, ever, and it's even worse now."
"Spare me the phony modesty, House."
"It's not modesty, it's the truth!"
"It's bullshit! I mean, how . . .how can you not know how, how, incredibly . . . how much anyone could want you?"
"Anyone?"
"Well, me."
"And that's such a ringing endorsement."
"What does that mean?"
"Look who you married, Wilson."
"My wives? What does that have to do with us?"
"You have strange taste in partners, to say the least."
"You can't possibly be that obtuse, can you?"
"What are you talking about?"
"My exes were who I thought I should marry, not who I loved or wanted."
"Why would you do that?"
"Why does any gay man marry a woman? To pass as straight. To be 'normal,' or 'respectable.' It's not about love and it's certainly not about desire. In fact, it's the opposite of that. You wind up marrying not only someone you don't, can't, want, you wind up marrying someone even most straight men wouldn't want."
"Well, that certainly explains why you married Bonnie and Julie."
"But not Sam?"
"She's actually not awful, as least as far as her looks, other than the bleach-fried hair. Her problem is when she opens her mouth. That causes more shrinkage than accidentally washing a wool sweater in the hot water cycle."
Wilson chuckled.
"So," House continued, "You can obviously do it with anyone, including me."
"No, I can't."
"What does that mean?"
"You never asked about, um, temporary equipment failures."
"You had those because you drank too much."
"Except for the times I was sober."
"Not according to Bonnie. She said you were a sex God."
"She's very loyal. To a fault, actually."
"So, that's why Julie . . . ?"
"She wasn't what you would call a looker, but she did have a high sex drive. So, she needed, well, certainly more than I could give her."
"Wow, this – "
"Is all new information you're going to have to process, blah, blah. Just remember . . ."
"What?"
"I've never . . . even with the chemo . . . no, um, equipment problems, uh . . . with you . . . "
"I know. Why?"
"I'd say it's because you're the love of my life, but I'd rather not deal with the derision. It's because, despite all my bad choices and every shallow thing I've done in my life, somehow, and I can't imagine how, I ended up with the smartest, the most handsome, the sexiest, the most loving man on the planet . . . "
"And you think this declaration won't make me derisive?"
"Most likely, but at least it's true."
There was a pause as House did indeed do what Wilson predicted and processed the information. "So, does this mean you don't blame me for breaking up your marriages?"
"Honestly, at the time, I probably did, but, with hindsight and really thinking about what happened – "
"And lots of mental health treatment – "
"Yes, that, too," Wilson rolled his eyes, "I've realized the marriages didn't have a chance. Not after I came to terms with who I am, and, of course, after I met you."
"I allow you be your authentic self," House stated in a high-pitched, overwrought voice as he dabbed non-existent tears from under his eyes with a tomato sauce and grease stained napkin. "And that's what true love is all about."
"Hilarious."
"You weren't expecting mocking?"
"I was. I love you, Greg."
"I know," House leaned in and kissed Wilson softly, saying, just not in words, that he loved Wilson, too.
There was a knock on the door. It was pushed open and the head of an orderly came around. "Just wanted to remind you that visiting hours are over in fifteen minutes, Dr. Wilson."
"Okay," Wilson responded. He turned to House and kissed him again, and then slid his arms around him, resting the side of his face against the side of House's face.
"How can I miss you already?"
"You can't, you moron. You haven't left yet."
Wilson smiled and kissed House's temple. "I'll text, okay?"
House gave Wilson a nod in reply.
Wilson kissed him once more on the lips, collected his things and left.
HWHWHW
When Wilson checked in via text the next morning, House didn't respond. Wilson thought that was odd. He'd tried to text before House's PT session, but maybe they'd changed the schedule or something. He busied himself with his day and didn't think any more about it.
He'd intended to text at lunch, but the staff meeting went long, thus making him late for his afternoon appointments. He finished late as a result, and by the time he'd completed his charting, it was past six. When he got home, there was a large overnight mail envelope on the porch. It was the first draft of the plans for the new house.
Wilson reviewed them as he ate dinner and well into the evening. He was finished after ten. He had a few questions, so he'd need to contact the architect the next day. He checked his calendar and found he had an opening at 10:15 and then at lunch. He sent an e-mail to the administrative assistant at the firm giving her his availability and asking her to contact him if the architect was available at either of those times for a phone call.
It was past eleven when he got ready for bed. He'd been so engrossed in what he was doing, he'd forgotten to text House like he usually did. He retrieved his phone and looked at the conversation thread and realized House had never texted him back.
Wilson didn't want to make a big deal about it, but he had to admit it concerned him. Especially the day immediately following one where they'd seen each other. It was entirely possible House was simply exhausted after sex the previous night and PT today.
But, knowing House, it was more likely he was upset about something. Wilson decided he really didn't have the energy to rack his brain after the day he'd had, so he tried to put it out of his mind and get some sleep. He was so tired, he was more or less successful, even though his sleep was not deep or restful.
The next morning, Wilson thought he'd try to engage House again, now that he had the carrot of the plans to dangle in front of him. He decided to wait until he talked with the architect, which happened in the morning. With his questions answered and the architect off to make a few of minor changes, Wilson thought he could talk reasonably intelligently to House about . . . the house. He texted at lunch.
Guess what? I got the house plans last night and I talked to the architect this morning. You want to see them?
House didn't respond immediately. Wilson waited and worked through his afternoon appointments. He was finished for the day. He left the hospital and still hadn't heard from House.
He went home and ate dinner. He sat down in front of the TV to relax. Still nothing.
After he got ready for bed, he went to charge his phone and the ringtone sounded.
Knowing how anal compulsive you are, I'm sure the plans are perfect.
So, does that mean you don't want to see them?
Correct.
Oh.
Stop sounding like a wounded puppy because you can't use the plans as an excuse to see me.
Are we back to the visitation embargo?
Yes
Why? I thought everything was great two nights ago. What happened?
Reality happened.
What?
The reality that it was just a quick fuck and takeout and then you were gone.
It was more than that and you know it
No, it wasn't. Just like the hookers, just like when Stacy and I got back together, just like with Cuddy, just like the way we were . . . before we told each other . . . I can't do this with you. It hurts too much
Wilson was stunned. He had no idea that House felt this way about any of these things. He'd thought that House had enjoyed being alone. That he preferred the lack of commitment. Had he been hurting all these years and been really good at hiding it? Apparently so.
Wilson realized he'd have to respond or House would think he was angry or that he was rejecting him. But what would he text? What could he say? He could try the truth, he supposed.
I had no idea you felt this way about it. Not just the other night but everything. I'm sorry for whatever pain I caused you.
Not your fault. You didn't know.
Maybe I should have, since I'm the one who's supposed to know you best, even before we were in a relationship.
I'm good at hiding things. Emotional stuff, I mean.
True. So, now that I know how you really feel and just how much you want me, I have to stay away?
Gotta love the irony
No I don't. But, I'll respect your wishes. I don't want to cause you any more pain.
I'll survive.
Me, too. I love you.
I know.
Wilson sighed and put his phone on the charger. It was going to be a damned long three weeks.