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The door was hard against his back, the handle nudging and digging into his side but he didn't care, not when Wilson had his hand pressed to his chest, right over his heart as though drawn to it on instinct, his fingers tight in the hair at the nape up his neck, his body pressed up against his as he pushed up into their kiss, pulling him down into the hot and heavy thrill of being able to recapture those lips that had held his mind enslaved, to illicit a sharp gasp and a subtle moan as he closed his arm around Wilson's waist, dragging him closer and leaving no space for uncertainty to come between them.
The pills were starting to kick in and he sighed into the wet heat as he ran his tongue along Wilson's lip, smiling at the shiver that ran through his body. The sound of the lock falling into place reverberated in his brain with a gut wrenching sense of finality. He could have laughed, probably should have to lighten the mood, feeling like a kid all over again. But he wasn't the only one trembling, and it was only because this mattered, that it was everything that he had craved, that he couldn't bring himself to alleviate his irrational nervousness.
It should have felt wrong.
It should have felt like a violation of the friendship that they had worked on for so many years. But how could it be wrong when Wilson whispered his name against his lips, breath trembling as House ran his hand along his back, long and slow beneath his shirt and his stomach jolted with the sudden and irrepressible surge of arousal that pooled low in his body at finally feeling the smooth expanse of achingly soft skin beneath his touch.
It wasn't enough.
There was no fight as he pushed away from the door, his hands pulling at the uniformed shirt, gripping the hem and dragging it up, breaking them apart for only a moment as he cast it aside. It felt incredible, having him in his arms.
The couch knocked the back of his legs and there was an awkward moment as they struggled not to fall as they found themselves horizontal, their weight falling back into the invitingly soft cushions and House took the opportunity of their shifting together to press his mouth to Wilson's neck, the choked sigh he produced swimming hotly against his ear as Wilson dropped his cheek to rest against House's hair, the muscles beneath his hands tense and shifting under the strain of holding himself up.
He could feel Wilson's pulse racing under his tongue, threading his fingers into thick hair and turning him back into his kiss, pulling him down so he could feel his weight pressing him down.
It was perfect.
He couldn't do it.
"Wait." House let his head fall back, "Stop." He hated himself already. He screwed his eyes shut so he didn't have to see the confusion on Wilson's face. He owed him so much more than this. "We shouldn't." His throat was dry, his hands drifting slowly around Wilson's waist, coming to rest on his hips, the couch vibrating with the transferred strain that shook Wilson's body as he held himself above House.
There was a moment of silence, drawn out and filled with a cold sort of dread before Wilson drew back, sitting back against the other arm of the couch as his eyes glazed over and he turned his face away, shoulders hunched forward and looking deeply uncomfortable. "I..." He frowned, eyes on the discarded scrubs top.
"I swear to God, if you say you're sorry..." He let the threat hang, interrupting his inevitable self flagellation. He winced as he sat up, uncomfortably adjusting himself and wincing as his foot connected with the floor. He sighed heavily, eyes aching every time he blinked.
He'd already thrown caution to the wind, had abandoned whatever carefully constructed walls he'd used to hide behind, had proved beyond a doubt that his heart beat the same as anyone's. Compassion was hard. The one thing he'd never been able to show, had always been beaten into him as a weakness. But this was Wilson, this was James.
He shifted, rising up onto his knees and bringing them close as he reached out, his fingers grazing the line of Wilson's cheek, holding him as he turned his face so their lips could meet, soft and hesitant, different to the hurried and frenzied kisses of only moments ago. "Not here." He whispered, his quiet words spilling out across lips and breathed in.
There was a promise in his excuse, although what he alluded to he couldn't say, didn't know what the end of this day could possibly bring or what assurances he might be able to swear. But he wanted more than just a quick fumble on a couch where anybody could interrupt them. He wanted sheets, and space, and to thread his fingers through Wilson's as he held him down, his mouth open and hot against his neck.
He wanted years of pent up frustration finally coming to fruition to actually mean something.
He was useless with words, hopelessly uncoordinated with his emotions and the concept of finding the balls to voice them. His actions had always spoken louder.
He'd never wanted to be ensconced on his couch so much in his life, to know that the door was locked and the phone of the hook. An entire day off and the chance to lie in seemed like a torturous dream that was being held just out of reach, kept at bay by what seemed like endless hours filled with muscle memory procedure.
He had no idea when they'd be able to leave, and the knowledge of that almost weakened his resolve. He wiped a hand over his face and noticed the clock in the half light reminding him that he now had five and a half hours left in which to capture as much sleep as he could.
Wilson still wouldn't look at him.
With a pained groan he leant forward and scooped the shirt up of the floor, wordlessly holding it out and refusing to flinch at the speed with which it was ripped from his hand. He tried not to miss the covered expanse of skin that had felt so wonderful beneath his hands.
Another pause, silent and almost comforting as the depth of the day's exhaustion settled over them with the ebb of adrenaline slowly fading away. Wilson made to stand, halted by the light and gentle touch of House's hand on his arm, light and unsure, both of them watching as he slowly curled his hand around Wilson's wrist.
House didn't speak, didn't think he could ever find the words for this particular moment that he had never actually dared plan for.
He brought himself to his feet instead, his breath feeling clammy and heavy in his lungs. He let his hand drift down, sliding his palm to meet Wilson's for a brief moment as their eyes met and fixed in the half light.
He left the office without looking back, pulling the door closed behind him with a gentle click and standing unsteadily in the halogen bathed corridor.
.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'
Endless hours.
Every glance at the clock seeming like torture, convincing himself that that hours must have passed only to find the hands had barely moved.
His back ached, agonised from sitting hunched over countless suture procedures and having woken up in a cramped and undignified position between Chase and Foreman on his office floor, the former practically spooning from behind and having the characteristic gall to not even seemed fazed by the knowledge that he may as well have woken him up by a kiss on the back of his neck.
It probably would have been a lot more favourable than Cuddy banging on the door and flicking on the lights that seemed to burn their eyes with phosporescent hellfire.
He peeled of the gloves he'd been using and snapped them into the biohazard bin, slinging the suture tray in after them and depositing the needles into the sharps box.
He'd be lying if he said he couldn't think of a better way to wake up.
Could have spent the night somewhere infinitely more comfortable than sharing a couch cushion with Chase and hunkering down under the lab coat that he'd kept in his office and never worn.
But needs must, and he had needed to leave.
He only had so much self control, the pills rattling in his pocket were testimony to that.
With the metaphor lingering on the edges of his mind he fingered off the top, casting a cursory glance into the orange depths and tried to estimate how long this script would last. He poured them out onto his hand, thumbing back the ones that weren't needed this time around and threw them back, chasing them with the bitter lukewarm coffee that had been nestled by his elbow for the last twenty minutes.
"Think fast."
He looked up just in time for the Lay's packet to smack him sharply in the face. Chase grinned and lobbed the sandwich which House caught easily, not managing to wipe the smug look off Chase's face. "Wilson's looking for you."
Those words made his stomach lurch, his heart race. He clutched the paper wrapped sandwich with numb fingers and nodded slowly.
"Four o'clock." Chase pointed at the clock on the wall. "Three more hours and we can go home." The knowledge had obviously awoken some reserve of giddy caffeine induced anticipation in the young man, his eyes taking on a slightly manic look as he ripped open his own bag of chips and starting crunching noisily in a way House particularly distasted.
House glanced at the steady tick of the clock, every beat of its tiny battery operated heart seeming to fight against some ancient power that was fighting to claw back time.
He wasn't sure what he dreaded more, the three yawing hours that stretched between him and the ability to get into the car and just drive. Foot down and the hospital pulling away in his rear view mirror.
He left Chase to tell Cameron the joyous news, her own exhaustion not quite enough to mask her look of disbelief at his blatantly cheery face despite the still suffering backlog of people still waiting to have wounds reassessed and rebandaged.
He found Wilson looking particularly dishevelled at the nurses' station picking up his next rotation of procedures. He took a moment just to look at him. Really look at him.
His constant.
The only person who had ever cared enough to stay.
His dark eyes ringed with days of relentless exhaustion piling up on them, his shoulders lax with defeat, hand on the back of his neck as though to guard against the strain.
"Chase said you were looking for me."
His voice felt empty and shallow, the words barely reaching across the distance between them. Wilson looked up, brows furrowed as though he had only imagined him speak. His hand fell loosely to hang at his side.
"Yeah." He seemed as unsure as House felt. "Cuddy is giving all of us twenty four hours reprieve whilst Princeton General staff take over. I get off at four." The words didn't seem to sync with his lips, or maybe it was because House was trying to read into the weight behind them.
"Same here." His automatic response falling from his lips.
Wilson shifted his weight, a flinch of pain creasing his face as the movement pulled at his over tired body. "You need a lift?"
House almost wanted to laugh, could have cried at the gentle tremor in his voice. It wasn't about car sharing, they both knew that. He bit at his lip, nodding his affirmation, not trusting what damning, foolish declaration that might fall from his mouth.
.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'.'
They all stood together, solemn and proud, looking at the crumbled remains of their front foyer. The glass brushed away but the chunks of brick still discarded like a toppled house of cards. The bright bands of police tape flickered in the night breeze, echoing the flames that had licked the walls of their beloved hospital.
They hadn't before taken the chance to survey the damage, hadn't seen the massive hole it had left open and gaping to the elements, like an infected sore left to fester.
They turned almost as one, each going their separate ways without a word as they got into their cars.
House let Wilson drive. His leg hurt, and it was his car after all.
The traffic had subsided exponentially, the streets almost empty as the nation recovered, spending every scrap of spare moments with those they loved and celebrated the simple fact that they had been the lucky ones.
They only hit one red light on the way home, the purring of the engine only just taking the edge of the heavy tension that hung in the air between them as House stared with encompassing preoccupation out the window and Wilson tried his hardest to remember the rudimentary basics of actually driving a car.
He parked it with one wheel on the curb, tickets be damned. But House didn't notice.
There were flowers on the doorstep.
Paper notes stuck to the door.
He leaned heavily on his cane as he drew closer. Layers of paper collaged together in a mish mash of colour and handwriting.
'Thank you.'
'Thank you.'
'We love you. Thank you."
There must have been a least a hundred, maybe more. Messages of thanks and praise, poems and scripture laid out in fluid cursive and unsteady hand. He looked at Wilson, and the disbelief on his face, the sheen of bewildered tears in his eyes and his fingers traced the lines of a verse that had been scripted onto floral paper and applied to their door with a neat strip of tape. It had been addressed to him. To them.
There was a whoop and a spontaneous burst of clapping from the end of their street and they turned their confused faces to the group of youths that walked past, hollering their praise and respect.
Another door two doors down and across the street was covered. House remembered Wilson telling him about the fire fighter who had moved in two years ago.
He'd forgotten that the world had carried on around them, that there was life beyond the smoke stained walls of their hospital, that some people were left to make sure things carried on as usual. He was usually the last to spare a thought for those around them, especially those who weren't under his immediate care, but now he gave pause to think of the old lady who lived next door, to the new family who'd moved in upstairs. Where had they been the fire rained down upon them, had the kids been in school, perhaps one of the ones that had taken a glancing hit. Was their mother at the mall, their father on the train to work?
Their street was quiet, cars parked silently and the air undisturbed by the usual sounds of night time traffic.
He stepped carefully over the flowers after Wilson opened the door, reading the unease in the younger man's face at leaving them on the doorstep, could feel the warring compulsion to gather them up and put them in water, to make them last. As though by doing so would somehow preserve some twisted aspect of recent events.
The apartment was dark, the air stale and stagnant but unable to dampen the unanticipated relief at seeing the familiar setup, the hastily thrown blanket still crumpled over the back of the couch from where he'd left it.
They both paused inside the door, Wilson's hand still on the door handle, realising that they were now alone and to close the door would mean opening another.
Words were left unsaid as it slid noisily into the jamb, the latch turned and the keys thrown into the wooden bowl that stood on the sideboard. Wilson shrugged off the jacket, hanging it with heavy arms on the coat rack.
"I'm gonna go wash up." His voice low and somehow broken.
House nodded but Wilson didn't see, had already turned away and meandered wearily through the living room. The sound of water running before House even had the presence of mind to slip out of his own jacket, tossing it onto the sofa as he passed it on the way to the kitchen, his hand in his pocket and reaching for the pills that had been pressing against his leg the entire drive home.
He swallowed them roughly, drinking milk straight from the carton.
He perched on one of the breakfast bar stools, his hand rubbing along his thigh to alleviate the ache that had settled like a blanket, refusing to go away. His hand looked foreign in contrast to the dark blue scrubs he'd borrowed. It felt like forever ago that he'd worn his own clothes.
What was he doing?
He didn't do this, he didn't put himself out there like this, to be burnt and left asunder, the great and likely possibility that he had already let this go too far crept upon him like a cold insidious drug that countered the one that was settling warmly in his veins, keeping him lucid.
Neither of them were perfect. They each had their faults.
But Wilson had always come back, had stood by and watched as he used and abused. House had opened every late night knock on the door, offering up his couch after every failed marriage.
He felt like he was the earth and Wilson was the sun, circling slowly with gravity keeping them from pulling apart. Even now he could feel it, the hyper aware sense of when the other man was nearby, the walls feeling like an insubstantial barrier that came between them, not like they mattered.
They'd lived their lives together for so long, had become a familiar unit almost without realising it, a duet...inseparable. He'd never really thought of it before, that they had come together so naturally that even their friends and colleagues thought of it as odd when they spent any prolonged amount of time outside each others presence.
They had become so in tune with each other, fell into step with each other like it was natural rhythm, could read each other like an open book. Could he risk it all?
The water was still running, the steam filtering out into the corridor from the open doorway like a shadowy remnant of his nightmare. Wilson stood at the sink, hands braced on the edges of the bowl, his body trembling as he stared into the swirling, seething water that gushed from the faucet, filling the air with a hot and heavy dampness that had already started to condense in his hair.
Whether Wilson knew he was there or whether he was too exhausted to care it didn't matter, either way he didn't move when House laid his hand against his back, fitting neatly into the space between his shoulder blades, felling the slow rise and fall as he breathed. He could feel the gentle thrum of his body trembling through his arm, sending shivers down his spine, or maybe that was just his own nerves as he stepped closer, barely an inch between them, letting his hands rest on Wilson's shoulders, trailing his fingers with slow and drifting tenderness down his arms, heart in his throat at the feel of goose bumps beneath his fingertips, the sigh his touch elicited anchoring him. Wilson straightened, face to the floor and eyes closed as House let his hands encircle his waist, gaining strength and surety as he smoothed them up and over the hospital issue shirt, coming to rest on his chest, his lips drawn to the smooth skin of his neck, letting them place the softest of kisses beneath his ear. He whispered his name, his breath low and swirling hotly into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. His bravado was rewarded as Wilson brought his hands to press against House's, holding them close so that the rhythm of his heart played out its staccato beat into the palm of their hands entwined.
It was pure decadence, the feeling that rushed through him as Wilson let his head fall back against his shoulder, offering up more of that glorious skin for him to trail petal soft kisses over, his own eyes closing as he breathed him in.
Wilson's hand was in his hair, his fingers threading through and holding him as he sighed, it could have been a plea, could have been a name, House was unsure but he couldn't deny the thrill of having those wonderful fingers against his face, tracing the line of his jaw as Wilson reached back, his gentle touch becoming insistent as he pulled him down, their lips a hairs breadth part, shallow breaths held. "You sure?"
He was caught in his gaze, trying to see the answer in the unreadable depths, to search for hesitation in the way he held his hand to his cheek, the faltering beat of his heart. Those eyes closed, fluttering shut, dark lashes against flushed cheeks as he breathed his answer across House's lips. "I'm sure."
House brought his hand to his neck, the heat radiating into his palm and bringing them closer, breathing in the gasp that melted into his tongue as he pressed into him. He tasted clean, warm, like the days of exhaustion and unending mental torture hadn't touched him, his hand was back in his hair, twisting it in his solid grip, leaning back against House's chest, the heat between them rising.
It only took a moment to turn him, to press him back against the uncomfortable lip of the sink, hands knotted in the shirt at his waist and arms were draped around his neck. House moaned, couldn't help it, the deep tremor of it felt where they were pressed chest to chest. The sound of it broke their kiss, Wilson's eyes darker than he'd ever seen them, lips red as he pressed them to the hinge of his jaw, his tongue tracing the beat of his pulse under the skin causing House to twitch, his hands close to ripping the seams of the shirt balled in his fists.
They left the bathroom, tap turned off but left dripping as they slowly made their way through the apartment, pausing to kiss, to bite, to let hands find new places that made the other gasp and moan.
The edge of the bed hit the back of his knees and he fell backwards, arms going wide in surprise at suddenly finding himself in his room, something significant in the way they had gravitated here instead of Wilson's. He was only bereft for a moment, Wilson's heavy weight pressing him down into the cool sheets. There was nothing to stop him running his hands up beneath his shirt, desperate to touch his skin, slaking the itch that had plagued his fingers since he'd had to force himself away. He found those lips again, drinking in the taste of him, the way Wilson let him lead, let him take charge and take all he could get. House felt the twitch of a smile grace his lips as Wilson let out a muffled gasp as he turned them, something vulnerable flashing across his face as House knelt back, ignoring the sharp pain in his leg as he dragged Wilson up by his shirt, hands digging into his hips as he captured his lips again.
It was only a matter of time before Wilson's shirt came off, followed only seconds later by his own, the feeling of skin of skin contact like the rush of drugs in his veins and he felt himself pause as Wilson pulled him back down.
The light from the moon and the streetlight outside spilled in through the uncovered window, highlighting and contrasting Wilson's skin with colour and shadow, his eyes dark and lidded with repressed desire, his hands trembling where they came to rest on his arm. House felt the breath catch in his lungs, his heart stutter as he slowly traced the lines of his face, drifting with a gentle reverence even he didn't know he had. He'd never seen anything so beautiful in his life. And he said so, meeting the lips that rose to capture his own in a kiss that echoed the painful sentiment that tried to claw at his heart, begging for release, so achingly sweet and soft that it would have brought a weaker man to tears.
Their hands found each other, fingers threading, and House thrilled in the revelation of being able to hold them above Wilson's head, have him stretched out beneath him, breath hot and sweet as it ghosted over his lips.
He should have known it would be like this between them, his wildest desires and ardent hopes that had haunted his dreams had always hinted that they would be fire and ice, that Wilson's touch would burn him, that the feel of his breath against his skin would send shivers down his spine. He should felt embarrassed at leaving himself so open, of not quite hiding what he felt in his eyes, of letting them slide close at the feel of Wilson holding his face in his hand, slow and deliberate as fingers raked into his hair.
They rolled again, legs entangled, messing up the sheets. There was a hesitant touch at his hip, the unsure slide of fingers just dipping into the waistband of the scrubs. This would be the last line they could cross and House warred with the furious internal battle, a whole lifetime of argument and debate over in an instant. They'd come this far...
He was glad for the darkness, grateful for the shadows that hid his scars and his sudden vulnerability, stripped slowly and left bare in the contrast of blue and amber, the lines of colour and edges of shadows traced with deft assurance, fingertips slowly replaced with soft kisses, hot tongue and cold breath. House sighed in contentment, hands in Wilson's hair as he trailed a fiery path of burning kisses across his chest, tugging at his own clothes until nothing came between them, just the exquisite perfection of finally having all of him.
"James." He gasped his name, arms clutching at him as the jolt of irrepressible arousal burned brightly behind his eyes, his name was pressed back against his lips, Wilson's tongue following its path into his mouth, the movement mirrored in the way their bodies moved together, hands grasping and pulling each other as close as they could, trying to climb into each other, eyes closed and striving towards something glorious.
The hand that reached between them caused his back to arch, his breath to stall. His hips moving of their own volition, setting a pace that meant neither of them could last long. Wilson's face pressed to his neck, his mouth open and gasping, a hiss of pleasure as House raked his nails down the smooth expanse of Wilson's back, grasping at his hips and holding him as he pushed up into the exquisite friction, ribbons of agonising pleasure winding through him, around his arms, his feet, stars bursting behind his eyes and he caught those perfect lips just in time to sigh his release, Wilson's name tumbling forth and swallowed whole as a glorious fire burst through him, head thrown back and only just aware of how Wilson pressed his cheek to his, three wonderful, damning words falling from those kiss swollen lips and crystallising with a frightening clarity in his mind.
'I love you.'