Title: Pigtails

Author: htebazytook

Rating: hard R (for childish pranks, fluff, plotlessness and a generous helping of smut)

Disclaimer: —

Pairing: House/Wilson

Time Frame: Somewhere toward the beginning of Season 2.

Author's Notes: I am new to this fandom, after having resisted its slashy lure for years since I got bored during the medical crap—but all that has changed! I am also one of the five people in the world who was aware of Hugh Laurie (as well as his nationality!) before this show. Much thanks to my crazy roommate who provided me with inadvertent inspiration and my awesome beta-reader.

House peered into Wilson's office.

Wilson was hunched over his desk. He held up a hand preemptively. "I don't know, I have not known, I will never know. And I really have to finish these before three, so why don't you go pester your lackeys about it for a change—well—" He shook his head. "That's what they're paid for, isn't it?"

"And you're paid to . . . ?" House pointed at the stack of papers on Wilson's desk with his cane.

Wilson finally looked at him. "Yes," he said decisively, re-immersed himself in reports.

Thoughtful silence. "Funny, I was under the impression you got paid to divvy out false hope and chemotherapy for one and all."

Wilson rolled his eyes, still theoretically glued to his work but not actually concentrating on it anymore.

House continued: "Anyway, that is not why I came over here—I'm bored, and I'd like to wash down this foul narcotic aftertaste with sugar and stimulants. Sue me."

"I'm probably the only one in the tri-county area who hasn't." Wilson finished what he was writing. "Okay. Starbucks or the café?"

"Starbucks," House articulated, as though this were obvious. He slipped back out the door. "Lobby."

Wilson sighed, grabbed his coat. If it was a Starbucks kind of day House really was bored. He'd have to get Cuddy to work sifting through abnormal clinic cases when they got back, wasn't sure yet if he was in the mood for a restless House.

"A venti white chocolate mocha, extra whip, 'with those sprinkles you hide in the back'? Are you fourteen? And female?"

"I am confident in my masculinity. You on the other hand really can't afford to be more venturesome than a double-shot espresso."

Wilson sighed, wondering why House was so focused on his alleged effeminate qualities today.

Then House, as if in response: "Aw, come on, just look at those doey eyes!"

The barista tried not to laugh. Wilson smiled apologetically. "One small coffee, please." He glanced back at him. "Meet with your approval?"

House made a face. "Eh . . . "

Wilson fought the instinct for courteousness that told him to carry House's drink, too, and located a tiny table with uncomfortable-looking chairs in an effort to keep them from lingering. (It wouldn't work.) House's cane smacked onto the floor after he'd sat down and lay there in the aisle, daring anybody to make a fuss if—when—they tripped. Wilson's eyes scolded, but he allowed it. You had to.

"So," Wilson began. House raised his eyebrows, all innocence. "Can you explain to me why I opened my freezer this morning only to have a tennis ball remarkably similar to yours nearly shatter my skull? And remember, I'm not even asking how you knew I'd get a frozen bottle of water out of the freezer this particular morning or how you smuggled such a gigantic knick-knack about your person in the first place."

House wore a deep-in-thought face. "Huh. Dunno. It's a mystery," he nodded, busy rearranging himself in the chair.

"Oh yeah, it sure is," Wilson said sarcastically. "May I ask if there was a motive behind this other than to give me a concussion?"

"You may not. A concussion?"

"It was frozen."

House stared off to the side while he spoke. "Well maybe if you just drank tap water like the rest of us these things wouldn't happen . . ."

Wilson took a reflective sip, joining in House's idle vigil of the other patrons. "Right. How many implausibly rare diseases have graced the halls of Princeton-Plainsboro in the last year? And by 'the halls' I mean your hall. Or maybe just your imagination," Wilson mused. House opened his mouth to speak. Wilson mm'd knowingly. "There's something in the water. Whether you personally assured this or not is . . ." He shook his head in lieu of a complete thought.

House disappeared behind his drink, sipped and breathed out the unaccommodating temperature. Regrouping for a new angle. "Fair enough. But in all seriousness," he leaned forward, hands clasped around the cup, sincere, "who is trying to kill you?"

Wilson frowned, folded his arms importantly. "Well, let's think about this. If I had to put money on it—House, unsupervised in my kitchen, with the bouncy ball."

It was at precisely that moment a college-aged, pseudo-professionally dressed young woman slipped backwards on House's cane like it was a cartoon banana peel. Wilson sighed to cover his amusement. Her impractically tight skirt hitched up just the right amount to cause embarrassment. "Oh my God, like, why is that even here?" She caught sight of House, who was conveniently already wearing his concerned face, like he'd planned it, which could very well be. Her furiously outlined eyes widened when she caught sight of him. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"

"Me? I'm more worried about you! Dear oh dear. I should really be more careful where I put my cane." He looked down. "It's just that getting it up—off. The ground—can be an effort for me." Self-deprecating. Wilson was enjoying this more than he should've. "I'd offer to help you up, miss, but—" He gestured at himself apologetically.

"Oh, no, it's like, totally okay. Seriously. I should like, watch where I'm going." She giggled and Wilson couldn't help making a face.

The girl left, hobbling unsteadily on heels she had never quite learned how to walk in.

"She should like, keep going at that rate until she discovers that the healthy glow advertised at those super cute tanning salons is code for 'premature aging with a side of cancer'. And considering her lacking brainpower and, more importantly, her far from lacking cleavage, I think she'd have a more fulfilling career on the streets." House said it thoughtfully, noticed Wilson's look. "That's my roundabout way of calling her a whore," he confided. "She'd be a lot more successful statistically, you can't deny that. Okay, fine, she could work at Hooters. That's an acceptable middle ground between working-girl and business-woman prostitution."

"Do you think I should catch up with her and schedule an appointment or something?" Wilson managed sound snide and concerned at the same time.

"Nah, she'd think you were coming on to her."

"What? Oh—oh, come on that's, that's ridiculous . . ." Wilson shook his head. "What were we talking about again?"

"I have no idea. Well, you were complaining about my generous gift of one bouncy ball delivered right to your door. And I was on the verge of complaining about how Cuddy thinks I'm acting like a child today."

"If the shoe—hold on, you're just hiding it from Cuddy? At my house? Because she's actively seeking it? You . . . are hiding a ridiculous dog toy from Cuddy."

House's eyes bulged incredulously. "Duh."

A knock on his office door. Wilson looked up. "Yes, come i—oh. Very sneaky, getting my attention by following normal person etiquette like that."

"Okay, this time I am going to pester you with that for which you are not paid." House flopped into the chair opposite, observed steadily, awaiting response.

"Not that I think it will make any difference, but here goes: I'm awfully busy right now, House. Could you come back later?"

"It doesn't, and you're not," House dismissed.

"Well you're welcome to start talking, but don't expect any feedback."

"Oh, goody!" House rubbed his hands together gleefully. "The Wilson stamp of carefully neutral approval. So, let's get right to it! Numbness in the right hand—probably focal dystonia to-be. Acute tendonitis, preexisting. Headaches and frequent blackouts . . . shortness of breath. All of this comes with the job of course—"

"Which is?"

"Ha! I knew you were listening. Professional musician."

"Another one?"

House considered. "Have there really been—?"

"Yes."

"Huh. Well the big thing other than the focal dystonia is constant intracranial pressure. Tension all over the place, in fact, oxygen deprivation . . ."

Wilson was suddenly annoyed with himself for only half-listening. "You're not going to actually tell me what's wrong with this guy are you?"

"Gal," House corrected. "She is an oboist—lightyears away from somebody who just plays the oboe. You'll remember it as the duck in 'Peter and the Wolf'—I can only assume you were force-fed that tripe as a child as part of your respectable upbringing."

"The what in the who?"

"Damn, and I thought I had you all figured out! Well let me explain—it's a feathery thing that flaps around in the water. Goes 'quack, quack'. Don't worry, we can go over this later—back to the patient. She started seizing while playing the 'William Tell Overture' on stage. The whole violin section just sat there and didn't do a thing, which leads me to suspect foul play—get it?"

Wilson offered a pained expression.

"Or maybe just that they're a bunch of bitter violinists who are sick of being told what it means to be in tune by a lowly woodwind."

Wilson sat back in his chair, sounded incredibly serious when he spoke. "You'd think a violinist with murder on the mind would use a string to choke their victim or something."

"Heh. It's always a consolation to know that, deep down inside, you're just enough of a bastard to be worth liking."

"Such a healthy basis for a relationship." Wilson shook his head.

House looked suspiciously content so Wilson broke the silence: "Uh, what time do you wanna go to lunch?"

House clambered out of his chair. "I dunno. I'll come and whisk you away when my tummy starts grumbling." He was on the way out the door. "I'll even pay this time!"

"Generosity, now? So there is a spark of goodness in you."

"Oh don't worry, just the one," House said from around the door.

The redhead in front of them was almost definitely not a natural redhead, and Wilson was wondering what exactly a desire for such a specific hair color said about a person when she stopped to scoop sickly-looking rice onto her tray and he collided with her as awkwardly as humanly possible.

"Oh, sorry! I'm—excuse me, I really should've been paying more—"

"Dr. Wilson!" she beamed. "No, no, it's okay!" The gap between her and the rest of the line began to widen while she sparkled at him.

Wilson laughed nervously back, shifted his weight. "I really am sorry, uh—"

"Melissa. I'm a nurse." No shit, Wilson thought at her oppressively pink scrubs. "Um, so yeah! I've seen you covering the clinic desk a couple of times. When I come to pick up charts and—yeah!"

"Oh? Ohh. Yes I thought you looked familiar." Wilson tried not to think about what a horrible liar he was or how much redder than her hair his face must've been.

"Anyway, don't be sorry. You can make it up to me later." He saw more than felt I'm-A-Nurse's hand on his arm before she dashed ahead in the line, tried to avoid House's eyes since he'd been suspiciously silent during the whole encounter.

Until, that is, he slapped Wilson on the back and proclaimed loudly and sarcastically, "Ooh, you bagged a live one, there, Wilson. Hellooo, nurse!"

"I—I was—House, speaking to other human beings does not necessarily constitute flirting. Now, I know it's different with you since you don't generally go around interacting with—"

"No, no, you're right, I'm just a big ol' jerk. You would never in a million years lead poor hapless nurses on with that irresistible boyish charm. It would just be cruel, unless you actually plan on dating them. Hey, wait a minute, aren't you married?"

Wilson sighed. "That too."

House looked through the sneeze guard at today's 'meat' in disgust. "God, this place would be better if they served duck a la Vicodin."

"Hm. Vicodin ice cream might taste better, don't you think? It could be orange with pills in it."

House looked at him like he was insane. "James Wilson, has anyone ever told you you're a genius?"

"Oh, all the time."

The red and grey tennis ball rested ominously in the third drawer down on top of the stapler he never used. God knew why he'd brought the damn thing to work. Well, to return it to House, but . . . He was a little disappointed with himself for cleaning up House's mess instead of talking House into it, which Wilson was capable of, if he bothered. It was the small things, and Wilson knew it, but in the end he honestly didn't mind tidying up after him. Someone had to.

He'd opened the drawer so many times to stare at the ball that he eventually just relocated it to his desk to keep him company. Unfortunately this didn't stop him from glancing at it between paragraphs. The thing was weirdly magnetic, which made him suspect House had a more complicated reason for planting it in his freezer than good-natured head trauma or even Cuddy . . .

Okay, this developing tennis ball caper, which was mostly all in Wilson's head, was just getting ridiculous now.

Wilson had finally worked his way down to Dr. Fitzpatrick's sizeable stack of paperwork—he was swamped and Wilson had the time, and perhaps more importantly the desire to appear industrious. Halfway through it he realized he was tossing House's ball back and forth while he read, a comforting out-of-focus distraction. So engrossed was Wilson that he didn't even notice that House himself had invaded once again until he shifted in his chair and caught sight of him standing directly in front of Wilson's desk and just. Staring.

Wilson dropped the offending ball, which created a much bigger commotion than was really fair, rolled off the desk and across the floor, bounced off the wall and parked at House's feet like a loyal dog. So much for subtlety.

House quirked an eyebrow. "Aren't you gonna ask me to sit down? What a terrible host you are."

Gluing his eyes to the desk had served Wilson reasonably well in the past, and hopefully it would again. "Are you planning on taking your stupid ball back anytime soon? It needs a good home, someone to give it the love and attention it deserves, and I need to concentrate on being responsible and timely."

"You lose—it's after three." Sounded nonchalant but that was what made it so smug coming from House.

"Seriously, House? I will throw your precious spherical muse off the balcony if it's not out of here by tonight. In flames," he added.

"That ball has saved lives!" House cried nobly. Wilson glimpsed a smile before House changed gears. "Did you know that Tchaikovsky died nine days after the premiere of his, therefore final, symphony? With an entire movement devoted to mourning the dead? But see, in the case of nineteenth century Russia, there actually was something in the water along with all that artistic irony."

Wilson allowed a pause, the better for his bewilderment to really sink in. "You came in here . . . to talk to me about Tchaikovsky." And using his hand to sketch how A didn't equal B probably had even less effect.

"Obviously. According to her cherished musical lore, my patient has nine days to live. Totally relevant to the case." House bounced his cane off the floor, eyes flicking around, studying the corners of the room. Wilson began to fear that neither coffee, food, the patient, nor apparently Tchaikovsky's mysterious death had abated House's restlessness. "Why don't you have any lights on in here? Trying to go greener than your office? 'Cause I'm warning you—I don't think it's possible."

"I like the natural light. Here's an idea—why don't you go obsess in your own special, antisocial way, with a scowl for the world but a martyr-like suffering in your heart of hearts as you work through your just-so-unfair handicap somewhere other than my office?"

House looked so candidly confused it gave Wilson a little jolt of triumph. "Are you comparing me to Beethoven?"

"You're really reading up on your composer histories huh? Find any time for the patient history in-between?"

"Hey, as far as she's concerned, her ancestors wore dumb frilly outfits and labored over a personal and unreasonably complicated art for the benefit of the ungrateful masses, just like her." Ah, so maybe the patient wasn't so much boring House as intriguing him and making him uncomfortable about it.

"House, go back to work."

House had been waiting for some kind of direction, and this one seemed okay by him. "Fine," he said, kicked the tennis ball under Wilson's desk on his way out.

Once he'd gone, Wilson reminded himself that he was glad for a little peace and quiet.

The door to the exam room swung inward with Wilson in hot pursuit.

"Tchaikovsky?" he ventured.

"Yep. He might've just offed himself for being a shameful sexual deviant, after all. Jury's out—well, dead."

"Anybody can easily hear that it's Tchaikovsky from the lobby," Wilson continued.

"Oh, don't flatter the clinic patients—they wouldn't know 1812 from 1985."

Wilson didn't answer. Further supporting his 'something in the water' theory was the worryingly low level of intelligence exhibited by the clinic patients. He closed the door. "Turn it down."

"Make me."

Wilson's hands dropped from his hips and he reached for the stereo House had somehow dragged into an exam room without being thwarted by the nursing staff, but House zoomed over to block him faster than an obnoxious cripple had any business being.

They shared a close, annoyed look before Wilson dodged suddenly around, tripped over a cleverly-placed cane, and fell into House more embarrassingly than he'd run into the redheaded nurse. Leg, meet leg. Arm, meet House's grip. And God were they close, blowing carbon dioxide all over each other like that. Wilson felt unaccountably shorter in their awkward parody of an embrace.

House favored him with exaggerated, coquettish eyes. "Wilson," he admonished, "if the wife still isn't putting out, all you had to do was ask. Literally throwing yourself at me is a bit dramatic."

Wilson didn't move, didn't react, but House could play that game too, quirked a little challenging smile at him. Wilson made an amused sound right in the beat before he closed the distance, met House's mouth with his. The quick intimacy gave a little thrill but Wilson was still determined not to react and House was equally unresponsive except for the slow, controlled movement of their lips. The pace of the kiss kept even with itself, not exactly accelerating, but not exactly stopping either. So they kissed silently against the sweet section of the music in Exam Room 2 for a small eternity. At some point House's arm had reached up around Wilson's neck to crush him closer softly, which must've been the cause of Wilson's breathlessness. He wondered if that counted as blinking in this particular game of chicken. And anyway, House's sparse, stolen breaths around the kiss were becoming labored. A hand tightened in the hair at the back of his head and Wilson was suddenly terribly lightheaded and aware of how House's scent held his senses hostage and—

"Doctor House," sounded the angry page from above. House shuffled backward a bit, held Wilson at arm's length. Wilson watched him watch the ceiling like it was the voice of God, and Wilson knew how House felt about God, especially when it was Cuddy.

"You are needed in my office. Yes, you."

"Huh." House frowned, and Wilson could see the wheels turning. He made for the door, releasing him easily, as though nothing had happened, flushed skin and wet mouth notwithstanding. "Later!"

The music swelled mockingly at him.

Wilson's office door clicked open.

He lurched. A concerned-looking Cuddy let herself in. "Sorry, I thought you were House." He laughed a little.

Cuddy nodded sympathetically. Jumping out of one's skin was admittedly a commonplace reaction to House. "Do you know why he's still in the clinic?"

"He . . . has clinic hours . . . ?"

"No, he had clinic hours. He walked into my office ten minutes ago and asked me for more patients."

"Um. Wow."

"Yeah. So who is he avoiding? Apparently not me for once. Wilson?"

Wilson blinked himself out of his trance. "I dunno." He looked up at her earnestly.

Cuddy studied him for a good minute before deciding not to press it. "Okay. Thanks." Turned to go.

"Hey—"

She looked back over her shoulder.

"How long do you think he'll be?"

Wilson's office door opened again, and this time there was cause for alarm.

"Hey," House said, looking down, on the more serious side of normal.

Wilson placed his pen firmly on his desk, emphatically not freaking out. He stood and leaned gingerly against the bookshelf to prove it to himself.

"I've come for the ball," House announced heavily, seemed to argue with himself by continuing in a lighter tone, contrite around the edges. "I'm guessing it's thawed by now."

Wilson realized he was holding his breath, let it out with a nod. "Yeah."

". . . is it?"

"Oh. Um y-es." Wilson had to stand on his tip-toes to see the treacherous thing, laying in wait on the floor.

"Good." House nodded back, kept looking down after speaking.

Such a hilariously uncomfortable silence. "So, uh—"

"Get over here, I can't hear you," House interjected, just the right dose of annoyance, and Wilson was sure he'd rehearsed it. He still wasn't looking at him.

Wilson gestured something twitchy and resigned for no one in particular and started to walk around his desk, shifting his weight from side to side since anything more fluid seemed too . . . eager couldn't've been the right word. Right foot, left foot, right foot . . .

House didn't really wait until Wilson was close enough to make his move, which gave the illusion of meeting in the middle, so Wilson was equally at fault when they kissed again. House was much more forceful this time, and Wilson wasn't sure how he'd gone from reluctant feet sinking into carpet to tonguing House right back. It was hot—physically hot, that is. Technically. Still, Wilson wasn't convinced by the sweat beading at his temples or the tightening in his groin, resolved to give them a good talking to later about propriety.

He managed to push House back enough to speak, although lips clung together and he tasted a shivery exhale. "What the hell?" He was trying very hard to pretend his heartbeat wasn't accelerating at an alarming rate.

"Oh, don't be coy, Wilson." Was House's voice always quite so ragged? Honestly, it really could've been—Wilson was just finding it hard to remember if anything had actually existed prior to House's mouth on his . . .

Why was kissing so soft? It didn't really make sense. And yes, Wilson was aware that he'd never let his mind wander like this while kissing a woman, and proceeded to reflect on whether this was a good or bad sign. His brain was on the defensive, which it always was when House was around, but House's body was so relaxed and his face so guileless that it might not have been necessary right now, but still . . .

And then he gave in.

The world got so much dizzier with his eyes closed and House touching him while they kissed. Wilson was forced to scrunch House's blazer in his hands in an effort to stay upright. Shock of heat when a hand settled on the small of his back, urged him closer. Wilson had to extract his arms to make room and looped them around House's neck which made clinging easier and furthermore gave him better access to House's mouth. House mmf'd and let Wilson's tongue lick at his for awhile, right hand finally discarding the cane—Wilson vaguely registered the unpleasant collection of sounds that meant it had knocked something over—House was gripping Wilson's head instead, angling it the other way to start the kiss all over again. Both hands tightened when Wilson nipped at his lip, eliciting a lovely gasp.

And Wilson chose that moment to wonder if House had paid Stacy a visit in an effort to save heterosexual face before ending up at his office. He then wondered why that thought was even occurring to him when House's tongue was quickly making friends with his tonsils. Shut up, he reminded himself.

They were on the move now. House was moving them. They were going—somewhere. Where, exactly? To knock over the view box for good measure? Hopefully not into the hallway. Waiiit a second, was the door locked? Was it even closed? Wilson's mind raced against his heart but eventually his breathing surpassed them both after House had pushed him onto the flimsy couch. House's heat departed to close the rest of the blinds while Wilson reoriented himself.

The lull nearly succeeded in breaking the mood and Wilson had just about convinced himself of the drawbacks of the situation when House's lips returned along with the pervading heat, physical and otherwise. Distinctly otherwise, now, and Wilson was becoming more and more unsure about kissing back but House was as stubborn as ever.

House, who didn't hesitate to douse himself in cologne on a daily basis, "'cause I'm just egomaniacal like that"—and okay, Wilson was equally guilty, but he just liked the way it smelled. It was a familiar component of House's House-ness by now, and in its current context, was suddenly not so much intoxicating as all-encompassing, enclosing, terribly welcome. House was kissing his neck and part of how good it felt was involved with how previously dismissed, never considered, how forbidden. House made a sound against his skin so enthusiastic that Wilson thought it'd come from his own throat. Hot shiver up his spine. Wilson echoed the sound as if to agree, let fingers trail over House's arms, chest, somewhere.

They shifted around on the couch as if by some silent agreement, limbs slipping by each other, ended up with Wilson smashed into cushions, one arm looped around House's neck, one loitering somewhere between them, weighing the benefits of pulling at House's shirt until the buttons popped off—House would probably like it, and Wilson wasn't feeling particularly patient at the moment. House leaned on the unmarred leg, half on top of him, breathing rapid and close so Wilson tilted his head to kiss him, reveled in the taste of his mouth (the lollipops he was addicted to) and touch of his body (equally addictive)—the way House retreated only to brush against him again, at just slightly different angles, little surprises or where and how . . . Wilson couldn't catch his breath either.

House seemed to have less compunctions about removing Wilson's clothing and Wilson simply observed the loosening of his tie and the first few buttons before it hit him that this was another step, another level of something that had only occurred to him an hour ago, and whenever Wilson did succeed in making decisions, it was normally after obscenely long deliberation. And so he felt it prudent to urge House's hands away from button #5.

Unfortunately, all this accomplished was a bout of renewed groping everywhere else. House was all heated aura and quick gusts of air and relentless eagerness and Wilson couldn't help feeling victorious about it. It wasn't often he got House to lose control—although to be fair Wilson wasn't all that sure he was thinking clearly either. For example, he was becoming obsessed with the way House melted into him, the delicious feeling of trappedness. It was difficult to stop House from pushing his shirt off his shoulders, but Wilson managed it, accelerated breathing notwithstanding.

House looked at him and it seemed like it'd been days since they had really looked at each other with any semblance of coherence. Comically huge eyes this close, which made Wilson's heart race for reasons unknown. "Come on," House wheedled, "we both know you're kind of an easy lay, as it were."

Wilson thought about it. Yes, probably. "What, you want me to say it?" He was suddenly nervous—they hadn't really spoken coherently either, not for hours or something.

House laughed before making quick work of the final button and sliding Wilson's tie the rest of the way off and the slithery silken rush against his neck might've turned Wilson on just a tiny bit more. "I dunno—you into dirty-talk, Wilson?"

Wilson breathed in response. House seemed to take that as an okay and maneuvered Wilson around in order to yank his lab coat off, and sadly, it was only now that Wilson realized he hadn't taken it off after returning from the clinic. Pathetic.

"Dumb coat," House remarked. "Itchy."

"It's not that bad." It kind of was, but only when you wore fancy graphic T's underneath instead of durable, long-sleeved dress shirts.

"Why are you still wearing this anyway?"

"I—"

Wilson wasn't sure how many steps had been hastily leapt over this time but before he knew it House had undone his belt, peeled away a couple of other layers, and grabbed a hold of his very approving cock. House shifted position so that he was pressed up against Wilson's right side instead, providing the perfect set up for simultaneously kissing his neck and driving Wilson insane with an onslaught of mercilessly tentative strokes.

"Ah—"

"Shh, I'm diagnosing you," House muttered, giving a longer tug.

"I see," Wilson panted absently, thinking he should want House to shut up but finding the, um, task at hand responding to House's voice against his will.

"Yes," House nodded. "And you're practically hyperventiling. Your body temperature has risen considerably. Must have a fever, huh? Poor baby. Extreme rigidity—sure you aren't coming down with, like, Parkinson's?"

Wilson rolled his eyes at how cheesy House sounded more than the indescribably wonderful pressure from his hand, although admittedly that was a close second.

House continued: "Also I should mention your adorably flushed cheeks, pretty pretty eyes, and of course how suspiciously quickly you got hard. Now, I promise I'm not going to be angry, Jimmy, but if you are hiding a stash of Viagra in your labcoat then I'm going to have to insist you share with the class. It's only fair."

"Just because you're a walking pharmacy—" House's insistent mouth covering his, at odds with his meandering speech. Wilson let out a moan.

"Again," House said, close and maybe a little raspier than usual. "You'll have to be quiet if I'm going to treat this properly."

He'd picked up the pace but let up on the pressure, which was both agonizing and exactly right. Wilson's hands sought purchase, tugging at House's shirt in what must've been an annoying way. It's just that House was so enthusiastic about it, clearly had a specific plan to achieve some specific end and Wilson was helpless to stop it and it was making him dizzy, so dizzy. "Okay, okay, this is all escalating very quickly—Hwff?" House's other hand had squirmed its way in-between their various engaged body parts to cover his mouth.

"No, seriously, you don't want Cameron to dramatic-chord her way through the wall and finally punish me for the rake I've been this entire show, do you?" House must've registered the blankness in Wilson's eyes. "Well, I can see someone hasn't spent their afternoon watching Don Giovanni on YouTube."

". . . You know Italian?"

They shared a painfully lust-free look during which it occurred to Wilson that he was discussing opera with House while being jerked off, but luckily House kissed him again just in time.

Wilson returned to his trance—the changing pressure of House's grip, the slow acceleration. Ripples of anticipation rolling through his body. Kissing mainly on the surface of their mouths, languid, although Wilson's tongue lost track of itself occasionally, when pleasure threatened to overload and he had to suck in air through his nose while they kissed properly. Dizziness reasserted itself along with a sharp pang of wanting and Wilson grappled with House's fly for a small eternity before pulling his cock out, and for all his brain insisted it was surreal to be jerking House off his libido just thought it was surreally hot, if anything.

He couldn't achieve enough speed in this position so he slipped away from a now mostly boneless House, felt him groan, loved how his eyes couldn't stay open, little glints of supernatural blue. Wilson was having trouble getting comfortable and finally just gave up and relocated to the floor at House's feet, pushed his knees out of the way and went back to touching him and watching his face contort and feeling his own heart race and trying not to think about how hard he was.

"Shit," House said, strained and under his breath.

"Yeah?"

"Shit," he repeated, arcing into Wilson's hand. "Can . . . oh God just harder . . ."

Wilson complied, feeling entirely too smug. "You weren't as sympathetic with me a minute ago," he mused, waited until House looked at him apprehensively before switching to a slower pace, waited until House made a particularly whiny sound before gripping him harder again.

House looked like a different person without those eyes judging him, and Wilson felt strangely in control. It wasn't that House looked peaceful or some crap like that—he'd just lost that dark, broody layer of mistrust and ceaseless calculation that might've made him who he was, but somehow, seeing he could function without it was always encouraging. Especially when Wilson was responsible.

But all of this sentimentality notwithstanding, House was clearly getting close—his throaty panting echoed by electric jolts in Wilson's chest—and Wilson wasn't about to explain to Cuddy why he couldn't wait until he got home to jerk off, especially since he'd probably end up offering to pay the cleaning bill and that was truly pathetic even for him.

"Maybe we should put on some condoms," Wilson blurted, wanted to die as soon as the words escaped, knew he was in for it, knew that to stop pumping House's cock quite so abruptly wasn't the best way to accompany the suggestion.

House lifted his eyes, still panting. "What."

"Look, I don't wanna make a mess on the black couch my terminally ill patients sit on to hear The Bad News." He tried to ignore the look on House's face as he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, rummaged through it for the condom hidden carefully behind his collection of used up Blockbuster cards.

"So . . . would you rather we moved to the floor? Maybe the desk?"

"That's not—" He sighed. "House, come on, let go—"

House twisted the wallet from Wilson's grip, threw it somewhere that knocked over a heavy-sounding book, and before Wilson could retrieve it House seized his wrist. "Stop before you hurt something."

Wilson met House's gaze—House's calculating, dazzling gaze, and decided now was one of those times that humoring him was in Wilson's best interest. The sudden rush of blood southward seemed to support this.

Before he had time to react, House had dragged him back up onto the couch and Wilson always forgot about his upper body strength and the ease with which he did it made him shiver. Soft solid sound when Wilson's head hit the cushioning with House's kiss, deep and suggestive and tasting like House and Wilson forgot all about cleanliness.

Lips touching his neck damply, lingering, trailing down over the remaining cloth over his chest. House had gone back to stroking him at some point and Wilson could barely register that House was kicking a pillow onto the floor and relocating between Wilson's legs until . . .

"And this is the other, better way of not making a mess," House told him before enclosing the head of his cock in overwhelming heat hot wet pressure perfect—

"Fuck," Wilson choked out, caught entirely, wonderfully off guard. House didn't let up and Wilson wondered how he was getting enough oxygen, how his mouth wasn't tired from sucking so steadily, perfect perfect—"I'm beginning—ah . . . ah—to, to see why they call you a genius—oh, fuck. House . . ."

House laughed evilly while his mouth was still engaged which felt better than Wilson had anticipated, surprised a moan out of him. More wetness tantalizing more of his cock, sudden blindingly good pressure along his entire length, firm flicks of House's tongue making up for the loss of his mouth before Wilson was plunged helplessly back into its heat again.

"Oh, God, you are much better at this than any women I've um . . . yeah, and—mmmfuck—guess it's because you're, you know, working with the, ah, same equipment . . ." Wilson had some idea of how hysterical his voice sounded but if he didn't let himself babble he'd probably be whimpering even more embarrassingly.

Obscene wet noise as House's mouth departed, hot breath over Wilson's sensitive skin promising more sweet torment. "Have you even done this with a guy before?" House sounded . . . extremely sarcastic about that . . .

"Um, no, House. You just assumed I had?"

"Uh huh?" Along with a hearty, implicit 'duh'.

"I have been married, you know, which many people use as a vehicle to express their heterosexuality in relation to another person. With me so far?" By this point House had forgotten all about incredible blowjobs so Wilson figured he might as well philosophize with him. If they kept stopping like this nobody was likely to get off before one of House's underlings came knocking.

House had straightened, extreme consternation scrawled over his features, still on the floor, proof of Wilson's arousal still out there for the world to see. He tried very hard not to laugh.

"Okay so . . . you're not closeted."

"No . . ."

"You haven't been in a grand total of three loveless marriages . . . and counting!"

"Oh, come on, House, what does this have to do with—"

"You do not own French shoes you know the name of."

"I really don't see what this has to do with—"

"You do not enjoy housework and/or styling your hair for hours in front of a mirror or whatever it is you do to achieve your Look."

"House."

"To sum up: you're not spending your evenings in denial with your Village People albums, pining after me for years on end?"

"That would be a no."

"Seriously?"

"Let's change the subject, now, shall we? Exactly how many members of the same sex have you slept with?""

House shrugged. "I don't discriminate against anybody who can help me get my rocks off."

Wilson opened his mouth to speak—

"Anyway, what were we talking about? Oh yeah . . ." And he took Wilson's cock back into his mouth.

After several more minutes of House's apparent godliness in the field of fellatio, of frustrating, delicious stretches of almost good enough and House's head bobbing and pleasure seeping through Wilson's whole body, bonelessness, all-encompassing heat and sweat and tight hot fuck House's mouth—

"Ohhhshitdon'tstopdon'tstopdon'tstopdon't—the hell—?" Wilson strained his head up to look at him.

House had apparently frozen in a state of sudden contemplation and Wilson desperately hoped he wasn't about to run off to Save the Day without further ado.

"House."

House still looked far away, but he pushed Wilson back down, strained up to bite at his neck momentarily before continuing. Wilson shuddered to think what actually went through House's mind while performing sexual favors, because apparently something did.

For his part, Wilson found it a struggle to think much of anything when being driven to climax in the middle of the day in the middle of his office, and once House had stopped teasing him and started employing slow, constant, heavenly suction Wilson was more than close and shaking all over with impending orgasm, eyes tightly shut while the only signals reaching his brain consisted of hot, yes, more, so fucking good, House, heat, more, House, Househousehousehouseyes—

Overall, it was a better solution than condoms by far.

He ignored the lethargic euphoria leaking out of his every pore because if he didn't he'd be asleep in seconds and, again, it wouldn't do for the redheaded nurse to find him so obviously satiated when she decided to stalk him cutely or whatever it was she had in mind. She might get the wrong idea.

So instead of relishing his afterglow Wilson climbed on top of House once he'd made it back to the couch, probably not taking enough care to avoid his right leg, quickly divested House of his button down and was annoyed by the arbitrarily elaborate T-shirt underneath so he gave up on it. His overheated skin was starting to cool and it was difficult not to focus on that, on the heavy half-notions swimming in his head. But House looked especially good all overwhelmed and lustful like this and Wilson smirked and nipped at his seeking lips and kissed his neck and bit at his shoulder a little too hard.

House froze, smile creeping across his face as he brought Wilson's mouth back to his. Wilson had always suspected House enjoyed it when anybody dared to hurt him, physically or otherwise. It did take a lot of luck and a whole lot of balls to even attempt it—merely getting a verbal barb in was an achievement in itself. House clearly thought so. That's what it was: pride. For failing to follow House's rules. For intelligent, well-prepared resistance. House got off on it. And no, admittedly it didn't make a lot of sense in the real world—but, like a lot of backwards logic, it did in House's.

It felt so important to press his face against House's, to try to get as close as possible. Panting and sweating against one another—they'd stopped seriously kissing since it would've required thought and coordination. Wilson kept deviating to press his mouth against House neck and House's fingers couldn't leave Wilson's hair alone. Wilson shuddered to think what it looked like by this point.

House had begun to push his hips subtly into Wilson's leg and Wilson took the hint, pressed back with his own leg while they kissed properly for a moment, and the sound of House's shaky exhale when they parted spurred Wilson into action.

This had to be about the twentieth time someone had sunk to the floor today. Wilson tugged House's jeans out of the way more securely and didn't think twice about slipping his mouth over House's cock, not even about accusations of pining or closeted homosexuality, and certainly not because he was addicted to the sounds House was making.

Long talented fingers in his hair almost immediately which was a pleasant contradiction of comforting and cruel. Wilson sucked hard right away in exactly the manner he always wished his sexual partners would do, licked lightly at the head of House's cock, lapping the hint of pre-come there before sucking again and feeling heat rush through his body at the unrestrained moan that got him. House's grip tightened as Wilson took more of his cock in his mouth, whispering some enticing bastardization of his name pleadingly and—

"Ow, jeez!" Wilson rubbed at the back of his head.

"Shut up and get back up here." House's voice was so low and breathy and fuck Wilson was sure he could come just from hearing it in this context. "I didn't think gagging you with semen in the next three seconds would've been a very pleasant introduction to the joy of gay sex." See, under normal circumstances this would've sounded satisfyingly sarcastic, but right now it just made Wilson want to fuck him.

House must've noticed the look, or at least that Wilson's eyes weren't focusing properly (well, less than usual) and reached for him. Wilson was still kind of surprised by House's enthusiasm for kissing but he complied, becoming obsessed with his mouth and the places their bodies touched all over again, sneaking his hand over House's cock to stroke lightly while the kiss turned open-mouthed and desperate. Wilson wasted no time in picking up the pace, sensing how close House was, the way he couldn't kiss him for long without muttered curses and gorgeous fluttering of eyes, harder, now slower, House's multiphonic groan, faster, faster, faster—

Knocking. There was knocking on the door. "You in here, House?" Foreman.

"Oh shit," Wilson hissed.

"Hold on, I'm coming," House called, admirably coherent-sounding. And his fingers bruised Wilson's arm and his eyes rolled back and he stopped breathing as he did just that, and Wilson didn't even think twice about the mess on their clothes or the couch.

They panted in the silence before Forman knocked again, louder this time. "Open up!" He hadn't tried simply opening the door and Wilson really hoped that that was out of courtesy and not because House was right about the thinness of the walls.

House grabbed him by both arms, hilariously serious as he spoke. "Here's the plan," he whispered. "You are catching up on your beauty rest at work, fully dressed, with this blanket on top of you."

"You've got to be kidding, this will never—"

"Shut up and do as you're told." House pulled the blanket folded on top of the sofa over him. "And stop hyperventilating already," he added as he stood up, hastily putting his clothes back in order and limping behind Wilson's desk. His discarded, wrinkly shirt hit him in the face from across the room.

"You might wanna put this on," Wilson stage whispered, and it was freaking him out that they'd fallen this quickly back into normality even though House was currently trying to arrange his shirt to cover the more obvious evidence of how they'd spent the last half hour.

"Satisfied? Now . . . disappeeaaarr!" House sketched a wiggly magical gesture in the air and Wilson rolled his eyes before shifting around to face the back of the couch and willing his breathing into evenness.

The fleece clung to Wilson's sweaty skin in the most obnoxious, uncomfortable manner, and he prayed House's talent for pushing people away would come in handy, no matter how awkward the looming question of What the hell just happened? that was sure to ruin everything or, worse, retreat under the surface of their friendship unvoiced to fester for the next however many years. Wilson shut his eyes.

"House you'd better be in here 'cause I'm—" Foreman stopped, presumably catching sight of the Wilson-shaped lump on the couch.

"Oh that's just Wilson," House explained. "I knocked him out so I could have my wicked way with him. Don't worry, he won't hear a damn thing. Out with it."

Foreman didn't sound convinced. "And he needs you to monitor his afternoon nap because . . . ?"

"You know cancer patients, always breathing down your neck for another precious month of their doomed existence. He desperately wanted me to give him some relief. So . . . how did you know I was in here?"

Wilson heard a rustle of clothing he was willing to bet meant Foreman had folded his arms. "The cable's been out in the clinic all day and if you're not in your office getting advice from your damn tennis ball, you're in here getting some from Wilson."

"I . . . nope, I couldn't have said it better myself."

Foreman sighed. "Blair went into cardiac arrest and you were nowhere to be found and we're nowhere near close to figuring out why she—"

"She's stable now, though, right?"

"Yes." Foreman sounded annoyed with himself for admitting it. "But that doesn't excuse you for vanishing into thin air and treating your patient like your stupid TV shows just because you can't watch them. You can't put people on pause while you go play with Wilson just because you're bored."

"Damn! And I would've gotten away with it, too, if it weren't for you meddling kids. Now go run some tests until you do know what's wrong with her. Oh, wait, did you want me to hold your hand while you get another blood culture or some—? No? 'Cause it's really no trouble . . ."

Foreman was probably looking disapprovingly at House right now. Well, more-so than usual—still, Wilson couldn't bring himself to give a damn about this unknown patient either. He heard Foreman's footsteps recede and the door snick shut angrily, identified House's gait making its way across the room to lock it for good measure.

"The cable's out?" On some level Wilson knew that, if he were a regular person, this wouldn't've been the first thing out of his mouth post-coitus. He pushed the blanket under the couch, made a mental note to bring it home and wash it tonight.

House had retrieved his cane and was studying it innocently, not meeting Wilson's eyes. "Apparently."

"That—! You—! That is why—"

"What the hell else am I supposed to do from three to four PM?" And House's eyes held his and never let go as he made his way back to the couch. He plopped down next to him and Wilson could tell the atmosphere had changed with Foreman's intrusion from charged and desperate to short-lived caution to relaxed and coolly teasing and intimate and everything Wilson loved most about House's company. He savored it.

House's hand shot out, palm up, and Wilson wordlessly fished around in House's discarded blazer for the bottle, handed him the pill, watched him wordlessly down it and give a satisfied sigh.

Wilson fished some more, froze—"Huh,"—and pulled a healthy handful of condoms all the colors of the rainbow out of House's inside pocket and waved them under his nose.

"Oh yeah, I forgot about those," House said lightly.

"I can't believe you made fun of me for being prepared when you carry such an . . . obscene number of them around with you!"

House gave the impression of shrugging, although it was a kind of mushed up motion given his horizontal state. "Well, you never know. Really. Sex is a bad, bad thing without an uncomfortable layer of latex involved after all—that's your position right? Got a few stashed in every one of my fashion-forward ensembles. And more importantly they can be used for impromptu balloons or—and this goes without saying—to fling across the room in study hall. Or just to cause Cameron extreme indignation." He looked nostalgic for a moment.

"Of course," Wilson deadpanned. He shifted closer. "I am going to put my arm around you now," he announced. "Don't be afraid, it's standard procedure in cases like this, and it's for your own good, so stop squirming. If you behave, you can pick up a lollipop on your way out."

House didn't exactly protest. Frowned. "It wasn't standard procedure. She was on the tour so she would've been vaccinated but she was also a last-minute substitute. Maybe it didn't kick in right away. And we didn't even test for STD's because Chase Believed In Her . . ."

"You know, this isn't a very relaxing afterglow," Wilson said, sleepy and mumbly, curiously unperturbed by the way nothing seemed to have changed. "I demand proper pillow talk."

"'Pillow talk'? Gosh, and here I didn't think you could emasculate yourself any further." But he dragged Wilson closer with his foot anyway.

"So wait—does this make me gay?"

"Does that one time at camp make you gay?"

"Oh, don't be so damn smug."

"Well I know how my smugness turns you on, so." House replied. Smugly.

If House had heard him come in he wasn't showing it, engrossed in the computer screen, angled slightly away from the door.

He swiveled around slowly upon hearing the thud, just in time to catch the ball before it rolled off his desk to the floor. He studied it, looking for answers, but Wilson didn't think he'd get any this time. Returned it to its rightful place.

After a small eternity House did look up at Wilson, sitting across from him, protected by the desk.

"Well?"

House only stared in response. When House couldn't think of anything to say that was always a tip-off. Wilson couldn't think of much to say either and stared back for awhile. Finally he stood up, walked around House's desk and tried not to feel awkward about closing the distance, let a hand fall on his shoulder. Supportive, totally innocent. And when House reached up and covered Wilson's hand with his that was okay too. House wasn't looking at him, and he still wasn't when he yanked Wilson abruptly into his personal space, didn't seek any sort of approval when he started kissing him. Wilson felt a jolt of arousal, then another, sneakier one when he realized he was kissing House back in the middle of his office with the very translucent glass walls. Wilson pulled away.

"What?" House said, sounding more like himself. "What's a little spit-swapping between friends?" Not quite like himself though. The little betrayals of affection in his tone made Wilson's heart race a lot more than any mere exhibitionism.

Wilson feigned a nervous glance at the door anyway, and when he looked back he saw that House was staring into space and sighed.

Sure enough House stood up, face full of intent. Wilson didn't know what it was he did that helped House to pull the final puzzle piece out of thin air all the time, but it—

House brushed against him as he slid by, eyes fixed on Wilson's as he moved across the room. Nearly imperceptible smile threatening to bloom at the corner of his mouth as he dashed through the doorway. "Later!"