Yeah I know I said I wouldn't add to this. I lied. This is a continuation of "Wish You Were Here"

Wilson's POV

The Slip That Brought Me

In the car I’m jittery, my body actually twitching with excitement. Or it could be the sixty-four ouncer of coffee I picked up at the 7-Eleven on my way out of town. I don’t think I’ve had this much caffeine or sugar at once in almost a year. There's just no way I could stay awake for this journey otherwise. It's weird to be contemplating this, to be this anxious to see him, or to even be thinking about him in a sexual way. But from the second the subject was breached, that's pretty much all I've done.

It's been a while since I've seen any action, which I doubt is helping matters. The fact that I jerked off just a few hours ago also seems to have made little difference. I can't help wondering where I'd be right now, had we not discovered our mutual attraction, if out of fear of rejection alone, he'd have been willing to live the rest of his life never having told me how he felt.

When I get there, my excitement immediately dies. Because no volume of emails or instant messages can possibly do justice to the reality with which I am being confronted. House is broken wide open, completely vulnerable.

He's thinner in some places, lacking the bulk of muscle he used to have in his arms and shoulders. I can't help being pleased to see that just like the rest of us, he's finally fallen prey to gravity. His abdomen is no longer perfectly flat, but now has the slightest paunch. The area where his hair has been gradually thinning over the past decade, can officially be labeled a bald spot. He’s wearing a pair of wire rimmed bifocals, the type that curl around his ears. I'm assuming this is to prevent them from falling off. The stubble that once ran rampant across his face is now trimmed into a neat, almost entirely gray goatee. And despite all of that, I can’t help thinking how beautiful he is, how much I love him, how much I've always loved him. But it makes sense to me that even after all this time, he would have trouble believing that. I have a habit of expressing my enthusiasm for other people through touch and physical affections, neither of which he was particularly receptive to.

He wasn’t exaggerating about the panic attack. I assume from the glazed look in his eyes, that he’s been sufficiently medicated. He's sitting up in bed when I enter the room. But he leans forward and turns to plant his feet on the floor. My approach is hasty and perhaps a little too quick, because after driving all this way, all I want right now is to finally have him in my arms. He holds up his hand -the universal sign for stop- and follows it up with a soft wheeze. And I realize that while I might eventually get to hold him, it’s not going to happen right this minute.

"I missed you," I say. I have no idea what else to tell him. He appears to go through some sort of self calming ritual, takes off his glasses and sets them aside. He’s hunched over, head bobbing, whispering to himself what I imagine must be some kind of affirmation or mantra.

"Can I sit?" I ask, making sure to speak loudly and clearly. I recall Chase's warning to me on the phone from a few days ago, that House is easily startled. Unless I'm making eye contact, I shouldn't assume I've been heard. I point to the foot of the bed and repeat myself. "How about I just sit?"

I wait for him to look at me again and give me some sign that it’s okay. Even when he does, he still looks worried, like the earth might crack open at any moment and pull us both inside. It reminds me of that song by the Beatles -It’s All Too Much. At this point in his life, even good things are simply too overwhelming for him to handle.

Slowly his breathing returns to normal. He looks almost relieved, like maybe the worst of it is over. But then his face scrunches up and he begins to cry.

"God...sorry," he mumbles, clutching his own chest. I've never seen him cry before, not like this. I've seen his eyes tear up over a sad movie and I've seen him grimace and grit his teeth in response to extreme physical pain. But nothing like this. I know him well enough to tell that he is incredibly ashamed. I suspect from his reaction that this is not the first time this has happened and it won't be the last. I try to picture someone else here instead of me, Cuddy, Foreman or Chase, or a God forbid, a total stranger. The humiliation factor alone would be sufficient explanation for him being here now, and for why he might having trouble seeing total recovery as a realistic goal.

"Don’t be. It’s okay."

He nods, even though I can tell he doesn’t agree. I want nothing more than to hold him right now, to make this better. But if I've learned anything from this, it's that the things I've grown to believe are helpful really aren't. I know that the best thing I can do right now is let him set the pace.

He lays back down and curls onto his side, silently weeping into his pillow. It feels wrong to be watching this and not doing anything. It feels wrong to watch someone suffering and not offer some kind of comfort. But I honestly have no idea how close I can get, before I’d end up violating his personal space.

I scoot up the bed a bit, my torso twisted so that I can see his face. We're the closest we've been since I arrived, which is about three feet apart. I slowly and carefully extend my hand, leaving it up to him whether or not to take it.

I have to admit that over the last twenty or so years, I have lost the ability to appreciate certain things. It’s normal to begin taking for granted anything to which you’ve been exposed in abundance, and I have been rather fortunate to have had an abundance of romantic relationships. But as House’s fingers crawl their way into mine, I realize that this may very well be the most passionate, erotic, and emotionally charged moment of my life.

He plays with my hand, making thoughtful expressions, brushing his thumb against my palm. The caffeine from earlier has worn off and I'm ready to crash. I'd love to sleep now. But I'm not sure if I'm welcome.

I slowly lean towards the bed, finally making some real eye contact. He sees me, I know. He knows what I'm doing. He looks cautious, but isn't attempting to discourage me. I eventually lay on my side and we face each other. I let my hands go limp, wait to see what he will do. He grabs my left one and eventually brings it up and under his chin. I bend my wrist, ghost my fingers along the side of his jaw. Then he closes his eyes, and I caress his cheek until we are both asleep.

He wakes me up by kissing me. It couldn't be more than an hour or two later, although it's still too dark to see the clock. It's a bit startling at first, not just being awoken with a kiss, but the entirely new sensation of being this intimate with someone who also has hair on their chin.

I discover that his hands feel even bigger than they always looked, as they grasp the sides of my face. His thumbs sweep over my cheek bones, under my nose and across my lips and I can smell the cherry-almond scent whatever lotion he must have used earlier.

His breath is minty and kind of sour. But my immediate thought is that I'm tasting him. His tongue is in my mouth now and this is what he tastes like. If I can taste him, he can taste me too. And oh God I want to do this for the rest of my life.

He must be feeling more sure of himself now. He makes a sound that starts out as a chuckle and evolves into a growl that he smothers between my shoulder and neck. His mouth is so hot against my skin.

I'm only wearing a t-shirt, and when his hands find their way up inside it, I am instantly erect. He urges the shirt further up my chest, until it's bunched up under my chin. I realize what he wants is for me to take it off. The sun is starting to rise and I honestly have no idea what will happen when and if we are interrupted. But I also don't care, because I have waited for this moment long enough.

I pull away from him just long enough to remove the shirt and toss it God knows where. He's removing his own shirt at the same time and the sensation of finally being bare against him almost moves me to tears.

"I love you," I say. I'm ashamed to be saying this during sex. Not that this is actually sex yet. It's just that I've uttered those words too many times in my life to know just how little they can mean when they are abused. I want to tell him so, that this is the real thing. But then his lips are on my chest and whatever words I might have been planning to use are lost in a groan.

It's really strange to have my fingers in his hair. I can feel where it's thinning in the back, but on the top and sides it's softer and thicker than I imagined. I play with his earlobes, of all things. I can't think of where else to put my hands, especially when I want to put them everywhere at once.

I must be fairly distracted, because I don't notice his saliva slickened descent from my sternum, to my stomach, all the way to where my waistband begins. At this point my penis is so hard that I'm certain that it will unzip my pants and find its own way out.

His burst of confidence wanes a bit, or so I assume when he stops what he's doing and just rests his cheek against my belly. Maybe he's just slowing things down, because it's obviously a huge leap from a first kiss to actually putting my dick in his mouth. Or maybe he's realizing that he'd rather not get caught having sex with another man in a hospital room.

I shift my body ever so slightly and my leg ends up brushing against his crotch. It shouldn't be a shock to discover that he is also hard. But it is. Taking into consideration all the fantasies I've entertained over the years, none of them compared to the feeling of his erection touching me, of even knowing that he has an erection. Because that means that he wants his, wants me as much as I want him, and I find myself wondering why the hell we didn't do this before.

"You're so beautiful," he says, although I seriously doubt he can see me very well at all. It's barely light outside and he's not wearing his glasses. And besides that, his eyes are closed.

I urge him up again, so our groins can touch. I know that if we dry hump each other, we're going to end up making a great, big mess. But I imagine he's got spare pants around somewhere, and I've got a suitcase in the trunk of my car.

He's only wearing drawstring pajama bottoms and boxers underneath. So it's just a matter of reaching behind him, sticking my thumbs behind the elastic and tugging them down over his ass. That seems to be the sign he was waiting for. His fingers are on me again, prying open my jeans, like an eager child unwrapping a birthday gift. I lift my hips and let him slide them down to mid-thigh.

I can almost make out the shadow of his penis, sticking up flush against his belly. I brush my fingers against it, cautiously at first. It's bigger than I expected, and for some reason that forces me to smile. Thoughts I've spent years trying to ignore return en masse, such as what it might feel like to have that inside me, in more ways than one, and yes I'd really like to find out as soon as possible.

But oh God, he wraps his great big hand around both of us and strokes. I am so lost in the feeling that it startles me when he stops. He's leaning back and reaching for something -the bottle of lotion from the nightstand. He squeezes a liberal dollop into his palm and then smears it all over us both. Then I find out just how strong he really is. He slides one arm under me and the other over, rolls onto his back and pulls me on top of him.

It's really awkward to thrust like this. Because my legs are trapped, my arms and pelvis have to bear the majority of my weight. I am admittedly not in the best shape for my age. But what I lack in strength I make up for in enthusiasm. I balance on my elbows, wedge my hands behind his head and then I grind our cocks together like there's no tomorrow.

"Consider this the hint of the century.

Consider this the slip that brought me to my knees -failed.

What if all these fantasies, come flailing around?

Now I've said too much."

R.E.M. "Losing My Religion." Out Of Time. Warner Bros. 1991.