Title: Verisimilitude

Author: htebazytook

Rating: R (a shitload of naughty words :P; smut)

Disclaimer: -

Pairing: House/Wilson (with a side of pessimistic House/Cuddy (canon's fault))

Time Frame: Sometime between 5.6, 'Joy', and 5.11, 'Joy to the World'.

Author's Notes: All about House being in pain. Not any more angsty than an episode, I wouldn't say (especially the recent ones!), but still you know generally melancholy. Pretty House-centric.

If House could open his eyes, it meant he was awake. Didn't wanna find out, didn't wanna find out. He opened his eyes and . . .

Consciousness. (Pain.) Goddammit.

He'd known that that ominous pink monstrosity creeping across New Jersey was gonna kick his ass. Damn prophetic F12 weather conspiring against him.

. . . Goddammit.

House hates driving. Pure unadulterated hate. The only time he does it is when it's shitty outside, like now with the charming snowfall and his leg's decidedly uncharming opinion of it. He knows just how badly today is gonna suck by the Vicodin tally so far—a number he'd rather not remember because it might make him think twice when he takes too many more later.

The car starts reluctantly, grumbles at him, moody, and the seat is fucking cold and the opposite of cushioned and House bitches at the heat to hurry up. On the plus side, the longer he sits here the longer he's putting off holding down the gas pedal.

House realizes he must be pretty pathetic if he's squinting at the traffic light in the distance and trying to time it so he gets green all the way to the hospital. This has actually worked once before, giving him false hope on every subsequent shitty morning. He always forgets about the stop signs in the parking lot and usually ends up ignoring them 'cause I mean come on.

Car's not warm enough yet and the wheel is nice and frigid under his bare fingers—an attempt to distract the pain away. The traffic light says it's time so House sucks it up and lifts his foot onto the pedal and fuck. (Pain, pain, pain, pain.) Sucks it up and zips out onto the road, forgetting it's not a motorcycle and maybe slipping around a little. He just makes the light.

He should've called Wilson. He would have if that didn't mean the eager/sympathetic gleam in Wilson's eye when he arrived to save the day. House didn't object to Wilson's sympathy when it came in the form of narcotics, but when House had to witness it on his face it felt like a different Wilson entirely. Removed, something. Wilson following his neat little formula for comfort and pissing House off.

Goddamn parking lot stop sign. Some bastard is walking and he has to switch to the break pedal. (Pain.) Goddamn Cuddy and her misguided commitment to highway safety.

Cuddy ought to know that House isn't feeling particularly well-disposed toward her right now on account of the stupid stop sign. If she does know and is continuing to stare him down anyway she's more of a masochist than House thought. Which could be a good thing, actually.

He can't help the sneaky rush of feeling when he sees her. Unaddressed, unlikely, unusual on top of their customary rapport. Definitely interesting. He's come up with all kinds of far-fetched metaphors to explain their current relationship to himself, but right now he's leaning toward what would happen if Joseph McCarthy went on a blind date with Joseph Stalin.

McCarthy approaches.

"You do know that that rain and snow and dead of night crap only applies to mailmen right?"

"I didn't make it snow. You have a patient." She looks so damn pleased with herself.

"You're telling me this before I've waded nobly through that vast, treacherous sea of idiocy that is clinic duty? By the by—if you care so much about the poor, unrepresented masses, then why aren't you in the clinic every day? Hm? Oh, that's right—it takes literally hours of prep time to fluff your bosom up properly in the morning and it must be tended to hourly." He's scanning the throngs of busy people behind her while he bullshits. "As for me, I just figured I'd come in late and you'd let me off the hook because of the snow—roads weren't actually that bad."

The smug little smile fades as she looks more closely at him. "Are you . . . you're high."

"And this comes as a surprise to you why?"

"House," she hisses. "You can't just show up to work like this—"

"In a world where that was actually true, I wouldn't be coming in ever, so I'd count my blessings if I were you."

Her eyes go all frustrated, beseeching. She's biting her tongue about something and House wants to scream at her to do what she'd suggested and forget about What Happened and stop willing him to be changed by it, as though turning House's teasing into flirting or being pissed off is gonna work.

House liked her a lot better before they'd kissed.

"—stenosis. You're here." Thirteen looks like a woodland creature blinking at him like that.

"Wow. Your powers of observation truly are astounding. What've we got?"

"It's almost eleven," Taub says.

"Again—well done. Is there a file somewhere I'm supposed to be—?" Foreman slides the file down the table to him. "Now we're getting somewhere." He goes to sit down but thinks better of it, just plucks the file with one hand and reads: "Thirty-two-year-old female, seized in the middle of . . . a recording session?"

"She's a sound recording engineer," someone supplies.

"It's all right there in the file," Taub points out, still sounding bitchy.

"And a mother. Oh, God. Talked to her yet?" House looks up and notices that Thirteen has gone woodland creature on him again. Seriously, is his fly undone or something?

"Yes . . . she said she had numbness in her right foot, it's in the file . . ." Thirteen says slowly. "Don't you wanna sit down?"

"What's wrong with a little exercise?" He walks over to the whiteboard and tries to ignore the quick pain from the movement, draws a line down the middle. "Are any of you planning on diagnosing this woman sometime today?"

Kutner pipes up first: "B12 deficiency."

"Could be drugs. Alcohol withdrawal or even cocaine," Taub says.

"I'm going to assume that Thirteen already said that, skip the part where I waggle my eyebrows and imply something about her, and go ahead and say that mommy isn't doing drugs."

"Hold on," Foreman says. "You can't just rule it out because she's a—"

"No, I'm ruling it out because, being a recent foster mother, if she didn't think her tox screen would be clean she wouldn't've consented to it, and according to the file, she has."

"Hypoglycemia—if she—"

"Next."

"Barbiturate abuse would explain—"

"Jeez, Taub, did you forget to fasten on your faith in the human race when you left this morning? Next."

"We still haven't ruled out a brain aneurysm or an infection or even a tumor," Foreman says.

House sighs. "The seizure's easy. Tell me about this foot that fell asleep."

"Diabetic neuropathy." House wonders how Kutner can sound so cheerful about this.

"Peripheral neuropathy." Or how Foreman can sound so snobby.

"Wernicke syndrome." And Taub relishes the pronunciation equally snobbily.

Kutner again: "Chemical burns. Any kind of burns might mean—"

"Of course you would say that. Next."

"Maybe she just has poorly fitting shoes," Kutner shrugs.

The team glances back at him simultaneously. House smiles to himself and writes it on the board. He has to shift his weight to turn back around and shit, no no no, shit (pain), shit—breathe, dammit—

"Are you okay?" At least Thirteen's concern doesn't come across as obnoxiously as Cameron's used to. House watches Foreman looking more concerned about Thirteen's concern than anything else.

"Start her on—something." Suddenly House just wants them to get the fuck away so he can hobble pitifully over to his desk and down more Vicodin in peace. "You're all theoretically competent health care professionals—go do whatever it is you do." They're all just staring at him, especially Bambi over there, which is making him feel guilty which makes no sense which gets under his skin. "Well? Go on."

They file out, Taub and Kutner avoiding his eyes and Foreman not giving a shit but holding the door for Thirteen who just shoots House another knowing look. House turns around and pretends to contemplate the whiteboard. Listens to her out of character heels recede down the hallway before commencing with the hobbling and swearing and dry-swallowing another two pills from the stash in his drawer of knick-knacks.

He's somehow gone from reading about people with different sized feet to online shoe shopping—which is about as dumb of an idea as it sounds—when he gets the page. Apparently the patient is seizing again. House wonders where his team got the idea he was the only person capable of standing around and watching somebody have a seizure. He clicks 'next' at the bottom of the screen and waits for the page to load. Checks his phone—nothing from Wilson. He hopes Wilson isn't having one of those terminal marathons of a day that means he'll be moping alone in his office long after hours—House really isn't in the mood to be guilted into sympathy for the unjust rulings of cancer. It wasn't cancer's fault that it was random and deadly.

Some kind of feeling in his leg. Sometimes it's hard to remind himself that what he's experiencing is in fact pain. When you feel it so much it becomes too customary to classify as merely pain and ends up registering as tightness or temperature or the brush of his jeans. But then he has to turn in his chair to turn off his pager and he grits his teeth and remembers.

He's on page 5 of 7 when the team starts using their brains and calling his phone instead. He picks it up on the third call just to see who it is.

"House," Foreman begins—

House flips the phone shut.

On the fifth call he's starting to wonder if they've been quarantined somewhere and are incapable of operating an elevator long enough to storm righteously into his office. House knows for a fact that, under the right circumstances, Foreman can give Wilson's monopoly on righteous storming a run for its money.

By number six he's decided that if they're really this stupid he won't dignify them with an answer even if they do manage to locate his office again—apparently a task far beneath them and their wireless technology.

He's deliberating between the really expensive awesome-looking sneakers and the more comfortable cheaper ones that are trying to look like the awesome ones when his phone starts ringing its generic unknown caller tone. The only reason House answers it is curiosity.

"We did an MRI and she started seizing again." It's Thirteen. "We ruled out—"

"Yeah, okay, why do I need to know this?"

"We're, ah, having some difficulty reaching a consensus on the right treatment—"

"Just ignore Foreman and do it. Now, did you want fries and a drink with that or would you like to try a value meal of leaving me alone for five consecutive minutes?"

"House . . ." He can hear her walking, the background babble fading out. "If you're in too much pain to—"

"Fine, I'm coming."

He stops himself from taking another Vicodin because when he's confused about how long ago he took them it's usually a sign he's had too many. He gets up as quickly as possible, walks through the pain, stares at the door and wills it closer. It's not so much the walking that hurts as the shift in position, as the difference in the kind of pain, the kind of muscles that are overcompensating for the chunk that's missing. And the longer he does the same thing the easier it is for him to recategorize what he's feeling under something neutral and far away from those troublesome breathtaking stabs of something unbearable.

This is why he needs a team—not to keep him in check like Everyone seems to think. He needs competent, creative, ambitious minds to rely on when he can't think straight because he's in agony, or high, or pissed at Cuddy. For when Wilson's girlfriend and pleading eyes are involved. House needs people that add up to him at the top of his game, and it doesn't really work when they're too busy making eyes at the hot bisexual girl or angsting about adultery or crying about a death sentence like nobody else ever dies or . . . well, he doesn't have anything against Kutner.

House really doesn't give a shit about this patient. He's pissed at his team for making him do so much unnecessary moving, for being so incompetent.

He has to stop and wait for the elevator and his leg really fucking hurts and he blames all of that on them too.

Strike one.

House has been putting off going to the bathroom for at least an hour now. He's already bought both pairs of shoes and is moving on to sound recording research on Wikipedia since he's too lazy to rummage around the internet for anything more legit. The buzz of his pager reminds him he's supposed to be avoiding capture and he sighs, tosses it in a desk drawer and journeys to the bathroom.

He makes it, somehow, because after the first couple of feet the walking gets easier. He's relieved his bladder and washed his hands and is turning off the water right when the door swings open, doesn't glance up.

"I heard you got in late. Why didn't you just call me?" And of course Wilson sounds hurt.

House looks at him—shiny grey tie with pale blue stripes—shuffles gingerly over to the paper towels and dries his hands. "I'm curious—did you get the tracking device on clearance? Was there an annoying cripple friend clause in the warranty? Or do you seriously just concentrate all your powers of observation on stalking me?" He's suddenly alert, seeing Wilson for the first time today, hearing his voice magnified against the tiles—all the little rises and falls and overtones that belong to Wilson alone. "Nah, at least half of your brain is devoted to being my personal conscience. I'm sticking with my tracking device theory."

Wilson's closer now. His pupils have disappeared so his irises look like pennies, catching the bright overhead light metallically. "Do you have a case?"

House shrugs. "Eh."

"Mm." And House barely has time to register his intent before Wilson kisses him, sighing into it, muffled and delicious. They haven't done this very much since Wilson came back, giving the taste of Wilson's mouth an edge of rediscovery. House lets his mouth fall open and Wilson mmf's, restless hands holding onto him, wrists to shoulders to hair. Wilson tilts his head for a better angle and then they're kissing for real. Slippery sounds echoing around them. House lets his eyes sliver open to see how tightly closed Wilson's are, tongues him deeper and watches his expression shifting and feels his own heart beat faster. He can taste the feeble excuse for coffee Wilson must have got out of the machine, and beneath it the lingering influence of toothpaste or gum or something. House didn't get to do this for months, plural. Wilson's moan bounces off the walls.

House has this plan to push Wilson against the sink and run hands all over him and suavely suggest something about going over the rest of the paperwork in Wilson's office, but when he goes to actually do it his leg starts to protest, and House thinks it might be just a little warning twinge until it won't stop hurting more and more and fuck, (painpainpainpain), what does the universe have against him today?

Wilson looks slightly annoyed—unbearably hot given his mussed up hair and wet mouth and eager panting.

"I should really go and help the team out. Um. Rain check?" The effort it takes to keep the pain out of his voice is absolutely ludicrous.

"You're serious. I thought you didn't have a case . . . I believe the exact word you used was 'eh'." Wide-eyed, pissy, come on already look. "House?" Stab of arousal beating out the pain for a minute—God House's name sounds amazing all low and breathy in Wilson's mouth.

Wilson's breathing which echoes oppressively in the bathroom at 3 in the afternoon; he always hyperventilates when he's been horny for awhile and has been imagining ways to remedy it all day.

None of this is helping the situation in House's pants.

. . . Wilson looks downright primal, crisp shirt and shiny tie throwing it into sweet contrast. House doesn't think he'd object to anything House wanted to do to him, even here in the very public bathroom, without any further comment other than yes's or his name.

He just stands there looking a little crestfallen and his coppery irises catch the light and his mouth glistens. Fuck.

And pain. Fuck.

"Okay, see ya!" And House gets out of there as fast as his leg will carry him.

Strike two.

He'd taken a cluster of pills the second he'd collapsed into the desk chair but Thirteen is giving him a headache so he allows another one.

". . . Not to mention the mountains of possible side effects to all of her medications, and yes, we did search her house . . . you're not listening to a word I'm saying."

"Hey, I'm only not listening to the stupid words."

Thirteen opens her mouth to speak—

House watches the rest of the team trail in behind her until she turns around and realizes they're there. The looks they exchange are far too knowing and wary for House's taste.

"The patient went into—"

"Okay, I get it!" House says. "Pity the poor cripple, try to remember how many prescription painkillers—which were prescribed by the way—he's taken since he came in late and has been avoiding you ever since. If you're so uncertain about my competency why are you even in here?"

This spurs them into action. Thirteen talks about what Taub did wrong and Kutner points out that they learned something new because of it. Foreman stands unhelpfully in his weird pastel ensemble and watches Thirteen push for the treatment she just knows is the right one. He's about to agree with her which will really annoy House so he cuts him off.

"So do you guys actually want my ruling on this or would you like to iron out all the kinks in your very weak defense councils first?"

Foreman frowns, Taub looks pleased, Thirteen glances at Foreman for her cue.

And Kutner goes all brave on him: "You-should-see-the-patient," he says all at once.

"Interesting theory, my very young padawan. Why?" House is not going anywhere.

Kutner takes a quick breath and embarks on some boring story about all the dumb things they have tried and failed to do so far. Yeah, House is already zoning out.

He sees movement in Wilson's office out of the corner of his eye—blinds closing? House deeply suspects that Wilson jerks off in his office from time to time. They've fucked in there on occasion—having some arbitrary stipulation against masturbation wouldn't make a whole lot of sense—then again, this was Wilson. And contemplating either scenario isn't exactly helping him calm down.

". . . so . . . are you gonna . . . ?"

Foreman exhales snidely. "He's not paying attention. He's high."

House stands up and immediately regrets it. "What room is she in?"

Alone in the elevator, thankfully. Gives him a chance to massage his leg and thunk his head against the wall and try to stop thinking about Wilson looking concerned whenever he inevitably figures it out. It's a problem because Wilson's concerned face simultaneously pisses him off and makes House want to fuck him until it disappears. And since he can't do much about that at the moment he'd rather not run into him.

On the plus side, House cannot wait to bitch at the patient for lying or being an idiot or whatever was required of him at this particular juncture.

Fuck—pain. It's ridiculous. It's only getting worse as the day goes on and there's nothing he or the manufacturers of Vicodin can do about it. It'll probably snow even more tomorrow. Fucking New Jersey. He's pissed at Cuddy for being the only person spineless enough to keep him in her employ, pissed at Wilson for refusing to even consider job offers more than two hours away from Princeton for no reason House can see. Pissed at his team for—

Ding!

The elevator doors reveal Cuddy like she's some kind of otherworldly messenger. She looks pissed.

"You think this is a game?"

House doesn't move, daring the nervous looking technician hovering just behind her to make a break for the elevator.

He makes a show of thinking it over. "Yes, actually. I kinda do." Half of his sarcasm is for effect and the other just so he doesn't scream. As he pushes past her he wonders if Wilson's let her borrow the tracking device.

Nazi heels scurrying to catch up. "Your patient is seizing every hour on the hour, the members of your team have each come to me separately with separate diagnoses—I can't do your job for you! Have you even seen your patient? And where the hell are you going?"

"Seeing the patient." House rounds a corner and hopes Cuddy doesn't catch his wince at having to twist his leg to execute the turn. He could've endured it in blissful silence but her heels and the blippy knell of a nearby ECG show up to grate on his nerves that much more.

"How many Vicodin?"

House snorts. "That's what arouses your suspicions? I'm doing my job ergo I must be high?" Laughs and stops short (pain) outside whatshername's room. Cuddy's eyes are accusing and Disappointed.

"Am I wrong?" she asks quietly.

"Again, not so different from every other day I come into work, except today I was unable the melt the snow quickly enough for your taste. Welp, gotta go. Stop following me around."

"House—"

Cuts her off loudly: "You really have nothing better to do right now?"

He turns his back on her and enters the patient's room, looking forward to explaining the number of ways in which said patient is a moron more than he'd thought possible.

House is starting to remember why he only slept with her once. It's weird how she's so infuriating like this when the same words in Wilson's mouth would make him stop and think despite himself. And maybe kiss him because Wilson's mouth is absurdly kissable.

House forgets why he kissed Cuddy in the first place.

And this is probably strike three, all things considered.

He's still awash in catharsis when he slips out of the patient's room, but then he sees Wilson leaning against the nurse's station and looking crafty.

"Seriously, where is it? In my cane? Or did you hire my private eye this time?"

Wilson waits for House to catch up, walks with him toward the elevator. "I've been thinking . . ." Oh, God, he's gesturing.

"Don't you have a patient or something?"

"I have your patient." Wilson pushes the up button. "Kutner paged me to look for cancer."

"That why you're here?" House will not look at him, stares at the numbers lighting up above the elevator instead, but that doesn't stop Wilson's voice from sounding the same way it does in other, lewder contexts—the kind House has been contemplating on and off since he last saw him. His leg is throbbing because they stopped walking and he just wishes the damn elevator would hurry up and whisk him away to his pharmacy of an office.

Wilson can't seem to think of anything to say.

"So she's stable, and we can send her home. Whatever you said worked." And Thirteen stands there with her hands clasped in front of her like she's in a spelling bee. "So . . . I guess I'm going home now too." Looks at him expectantly, tight smile plastered on and wanting to say something. "Yeah."

Thirteen leaves right as Wilson arrives. The look of concern isn't as bad as House had expected—he looks more wistful than actively concerned, maybe a little sleepy since he's rubbing at the back of his neck.

He tosses a new prescription on the desk in front of him and House just nods and unwraps and uncaps and takes another pill. As much as House enjoys debating with Wilson there are times he likes his noncommittal silence (and compliance) best.

"According to my sources," Wilson begins, meandering soft voice jarring House back to reality, loud in the deadened nighttime office, "you did next to nothing for this patient, and it was more or less by chance that your team stumbled across the right answer." He's either talking in slow motion or House is more stoned than he thought. "Perhaps more telling is your apathy toward the puzzle, your especially hermit-like behavior today . . . and the weather."

House leans back in his chair, eyes closed. "You don't sound too upset by any of this."

"We're supposed to get three inches tomorrow—let me drive you home."

House rubs at his eyes, feels the pain starting to seep away. "Don't bother, I've got—"

"I'm driving you home. Come on."

They don't say much of anything on the way to Wilson's car and that's probably only because Wilson can tell House doesn't want to talk about addiction/responsibility. His consideration makes House cringe a little, but at the same time he can't help feeling terribly grateful.

With the keys jangling in the lock and Wilson's heat behind him comes a sense of relief. House has had it with pretending to function, doesn't pay attention to where Wilson is and keeps moving until he ends up collapsed on his bed with his coat still on. He closes his eyes and listens to Wilson hang up his own coat methodically. After some unknown amount of time has passed the shitty little TV in the bedroom zings on.

Wilson always changes out of his suit and tie like they've offended him the second he gets anywhere that isn't work or In Public and sure enough House can hear the work clothes crumpling mutedly away, slits an eye open to watch as Wilson excavates a soft earthtoney shirt from somewhere and yanks it on. He's stowed this particular one at House's apartment and as a result House associates it with clean dishes, decent breakfasts, and sex.

The crisp new button-down lies in wait on the floor and House wonders how much of Wilson's new wardrobe is about loosing weight too quickly and how much of it is caught up in Amber.

He closes his eyes again and Wheel of Fortune washes over him. It's all rather nauseatingly domestic, especially when he feels Wilson's weight dip the mattress and a warm hand on his (working) leg. House can't figure out why Wilson's being so affectionate all of a sudden.

House feels better than he has all day. His leg does.

Yeah, he's pretty sure at this point that the dreamy state he's in has little to do with tiredness and everything to do with the wonders of Vicodin. He's never denied that it has an effect on him—he's a doctor and not an idiot for God's sake, and he enjoys the alertness, the speed with which the wheels turn, the glorious pain-numbing sluggishness when he's gone a little overboard . . . and what the hell is wrong with that, anyway?

House must've let loose a noise of some kind because Wilson's shifting around until he ends up half on top of him and his lips are brushing House's neck. House makes another noise, lets a hand drift up Wilson's back—heat emanates from him like he's got a fever—brings Wilson's head up for a kiss and finds his hair still damp from the light snowfall. Wilson exhales onto House's cheek and House is enjoying this languorous world free from pain and Wilson's reprimand, much prefers him and Wilson separate from addictions and misery or Cuddy and Amber.

Wilson seems encouraged by House's hands on him, one tangling his hair and the other gripping Wilson's forearm. Shifts more definitively over him, wash of heated aura.

"Where's the remote?" Wilson mutters.

"You mean you don't want a live studio audience to applaud your seduction techniques? And yes, I am implying that you're that needy."

"Mmm, shut up . . ." Wilson succeeds in locating the power button on the remote, flings it off the bed. The sudden death of the television buzz makes it all so immediate and exciting so House pulls him closer for kissing.

It occurs to House that Wilson must realize the drugs are kicking in now. He really loves that Wilson notices little things as much as he does, waiting until the second puzzle exactly to make a move, perfectly timed. Selfish bastard.

"It doesn't bother you that I'm higher than a kite right now?"

Wilson just smiles. "Oh, you're more fun this way."

He then seizes House's wrists and presses them into pillows, leans in to kiss him open-mouthed and House can't get enough air, groans. At some point Wilson's lips detach wetly to slide across House's jaw, suck at his neck, and Wilson has to tug House's t-shirt aside to lick his collarbone, hot breath misting all over the place. Wilson is apparently too lazy to help House out of his coat and just slides down to mouth over muscle through his shirt, clearly aware of how every shift of his left leg teases House's hardening cock. The only thing House can remember to do is touch Wilson wherever is convenient, relish the lovely shock that courses through him when Wilson captures House's wrists again, maybe a little rough, damp breathing over his hipbone ushering strategies of turning the tables out of House's mind.

House realizes on some level that the only reason Wilson is being so assertive is to create the illusion of normality and lack of pain (it's still nagging at him underneath the lust), and the lengths Wilson will go to to delude himself and others never cease to amaze House.

Vicodin tastes best when served with a fine course of lust, House decides.

Watching Wilson attempt to undo House's fly without loosing momentum or making it too obvious that he's avoiding House's leg is quality entertainment. At least until the various offending layers have been dealt with and Wilson's mouth descends on his cock and this is all happening very quickly, satiny heat sneaking up on him in its intensity. And then Wilson sucks like he means business and House has to close his eyes and grab something and mutter something and concentrate on it. Hears/feels the answering sound from Wilson to whatever he said, tries not to fight how good it feels. Wilson's mouth is replaced by cool air for a moment and he switches to clever swipes of tongue, driving House slightly crazy with impatience but mostly with the fantasies dancing across his eyelids. Wilson sucks firmly on the head, waits for House's groan before sliding his mouth over him fully again.

House watches this time, panting and staring until Wilson feels his eyes on him and meets his gaze and House groans louder and Wilson laughs victoriously around House's cock, sucks base to tip, slides back down with his tongue going crazy and hands steadying House's twitching hips. This pattern repeats and repeats until House realizes he could very well come at any moment and he has to drag Wilson up—heat and closeness—has to kiss him into the mattress, struggles out of his damn winter coat while he's at it. He glimpses one watery copper eye fluttering when he finds a good spot on Wilson's neck, obsesses over it until he gets Wilson to moan and clutch at him, snakes a hand into his hair to hold him still until he can feel Wilson's breath quicken. Carotid artery pulsing under House's tongue and salty skin tinged with some distant cologne. By the time House's hands are skimming Wilson's sides, gathering up heat, he's practically squirming.

"Mmf," Wilson says in frustration, forces House into a kiss that's all tongue and saliva and overdressed bodies heaving against one another. House shivers at Wilson's tongue mashing into his, reminded of erstwhile blowjobs. "House, just fuck me," he breathes, House's name seeming to echo as it had in the hospital bathroom, sounding infinitely better with the rest of the sentence tacked on. Wilson doesn't seem terribly concerned about his leg's well-being anymore and House tries to spot a giveaway in Wilson's body language but all that's registering is debauchery.

Before House can even recall any locations where there may once have been lube Wilson's vanished and returned with a handful of weirdly scented lotion—some poorly thought out Christmas present of yesteryear that House never uses and always forgets about. He's half-reclining and Wilson is upright on his knees, jostling the bed around when he places a hand on House's chest to push him down, sort of holding him there while the other hand descends on House's cock all sodden with the lotion and the unfamiliar scent. House twists his arm between them so he can tug on the top of Wilson's sweatpants until Wilson takes the hint and flops back on the bed, yanks them off along with his underwear and leaves a dark, slimy-looking patch where his lotiony hand got involved. And then Wilson uses said hand to start pumping his own cock, seeming to forget House is even there.

House reminds Wilson of his presence by turning him over, removing Wilson's busy hand and pinning it above him to gather up lotion, their fingers meshing in an unexpected instant of intimacy before House starts preparing him, biting his shoulder through the soft after-work t-shirt—he feels Wilson's desperation, feels the sweat along his hairline. House removes the initial finger and replaces it with two, really hoping Wilson's inclined to speed this along.

And indeed Wilson shifts around restlessly under him, their relatively intact clothing starting to stick to their skin, makes an impatient noise and mutters something House can't quite catch. (Heat, fuck.)

As House positions himself he wonders what in the world happened to Wilson today that has made him so damn horny. Not that he's complaining, just . . .

House tries not to think too much about the heat of Wilson's body closing in on him, tries not to hear the breathless encouragements and curses dribbling from Wilson's lips. If he doesn't ignore the pleasure at least a little bit he'll forget he's supposed to be in pain and not overworking his leg. But Wilson's writhing like crazy and sex is always just slightly more wonderful than House remembers it—too simple an act to make him feel so much.

Wilson's emitting these sexy low-pitched yelps now and House wonders again if there's some kind of ulterior motive here. He tries to think of nurses he's spotted Wilson with in the hallway, maybe a particular patient that just means so much to Wilson or—

"House," Wilson breathes, and House forgets about his leg and speeds up his thrusts and is rewarded with Wilson's head tossing and Wilson's voice getting too loud and heat completely overwhelming him.

It's hard to remember exactly when he comes, but when Wilson does it's with House's hand on his cock and one deep, drawn out thrust and House's name in his mouth again.

He watches him check the time. "It's too early to sleep," Wilson says.

"What did you do all day?"

Watches his eyebrows lift. "You're asking me about my day? How many Vicodin did you take anyway?"

House stretches. "Dunno." Why the hell is Wilson so chipper when House still feels utterly drugged?

Wilson lays there on top of the covers in his sweatpants again, breathing and being skeptical at House with sweat trickling by his ears. "Well," he sighs, in a much better, more relaxed manner than usual, "I saw patients all morning. I . . . was hounded by your team who apparently mistook me for your personal answering machine. I ate in the cafeteria where Cuddy likewise treated me like your answering machine. I was harassed once again when Kutner forgot what cancer looked like. Let's see. You refused to harass me back at some point. You saved the day and . . . here we are."

House closes his eyes because seeing Wilson so carefree and content makes him feel funny. "I didn't, actually. God, Cuddy is annoying. I really . . ." He really doesn't want this to come out the wrong way. "Cuddy . . . and me. We don't make sense, but it works. Usually."

Wilson laughs, looking terribly entertained all of a sudden. "Let me try to put this in terms you can understand. You're the nervous system—you act on impulse; Cuddy is the skeletal system and she gives you some structure, keeps everything in place. One just doesn't function very well without the other."

House likes Wilson's metaphor better. "So how do you fit into all of this? Circulatory?"

Wilson sits up, rolls his neck until it cracks satisfyingly. "Hey, what do you want for dinner?" he asks, already off the bed, not bothering to retrieve his shirt where it rests sweaty and discarded on the floor. House just watches him walk half-naked across the room, hair fucked up gorgeously, breath still a little uneven.

"Whatever," House mumbles after him, gives himself over to floating in a sea of sexual gratification and Wilson taking care of things. Painless. He dozes until the sounds and smells of food preparation win out and he slinks out of bed, realizes he's still in jeans.

Walking to the kitchen without his cane, he thinks about how awesome it is to have Chez Wilson so conveniently located in his apartment.

They walk into the lobby together, snow excusing them, and straight into Cuddy. She's staring him down in that vulturey way of hers that feels more comfortable to House than the recent outbreak of forced familiarity.

"Are you planning on doling out every aspect of work to your team or will you deign to come up with a single diagnosis of your own today? Good morning, Wilson."

"Morning," Wilson says, unfazed.

"Well," House says, "I did consider not being in pain today, but then I decided against it. You know, just to annoy you."

Cuddy still looks pissed, but that new layer of Knowing Best by virtue of having kissed him starts welling up in her eyes. "House, this isn't about you. This is about what happens when you get too high to function and sit in your office all day and do nothing while your patient—"

Wilson cuts her off: "If only he could hire some kind of . . . squadron of colleagues to oversee him. Working in fellowship with him, if you will. Maybe, just maybe, their competence would win out in the end when he's in too much pain to think straight. Of course, this is just a little theory I'm working on, but . . . it just might work." He checks his watch. "Well, we've really gotta get going. It was nice talking with you."

". . ." Cuddy replies, staring at Wilson's like she'd forgotten he even existed. Then again so is House.

Wilson grabs his sleeve and drags him into the elevator. House expects him to say something else but he doesn't and they stare at the numbers in silence.

Ding!

Wilson's arm brushes against his while they walk down the hall and House pretends to be interested in seeing whether his conference room is occupied—well, not entirely pretending because if the team is off being doctorly somewhere he's planning on following Wilson into his office and kissing him.

"See you at lunch, House." Wilson's passed the threshold of the conference room door and Thirteen has noticed him and now House has to think of a wild goose chase to send them on.

And for some reason House can't stop watching Wilson walk down the hall, even after the door opens and Thirteen starts talking.