Disclaimer and all that good stuff in chapter 1.

So…sex scenes are hard to write without too much repetition; after two or three, it gets kinda difficult. So this chapter is still going where the chapters before were going but it doesn't get there yet either. Sorry!

And just to reiterate, this fic is rated Mature for a very good reason. It contains sexual content and contact between two men. If sexual content or sexual contact between two men bothers you, please avoid this fic.

A timeline reminder too: this takes place directly after House and Cameron's date in season 1's episode Love Hurts. I recommend going back to chapter 16 beforeyou start reading this one to remind yourself where the story is. Sorry! I didn't expect a delay of months to separate these two chaps.

Chapter 17: Pre-Game

"You look ten years younger," Wilson said when he returned to the bathroom. Now House was the one who looked like a wet cat. A really sexy wet cat.

"What are you doing in my clothes?" House asked stupidly as Wilson seated himself.

"Staying dry," Wilson answered. The steak was on the fire, the potatoes were in the oven, and it was his turn to have a treat. Float blobs of shaving cream were blocking his view, though.

House narrowed his eyes, displeased that Wilson had found a loophole in the splashing contract. He glanced at the shaving cream and back to Wilson. "You owe me one baby-smooth scrotum."

Wilson made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a snort. "With the razor you use on your face?" he said incredulously.

House rolled his eyes. "Yes, with the razor I use on my face," he repeated sarcastically. "You didn't see the package of cheap Bics when you were looking for this?" He nodded to the hand mirror.

Wilson raised an eyebrow. He was about to ask why House would have cheap razors under his sink where he would have trouble accessing them when he remembered something from eight or nine years ago: he'd met House for lunch as usual and had finally said something after House spent ten minutes scratching himself. Stacy had finally bugged him enough about shaving that he'd done it. In fact, now that he thought about, he recalled other instances of Stacy-related crotch scratching, which House would dismiss with a comment about her being domineering over his pubic hair. And House being House, he'd kept the package of razors. Or he'd bought a new package. Something. He was suddenly very happy that he hadn't said anything.

But his reflective spell hadn't gone unnoticed by House. "What?" House said. "Mourning already?"

Wilson snapped out of his reverie, recovering in time to avoid giving himself away. "Just thinking about how I'll be up all night scratching," he said.

House rubbed his smooth face. "You'll be totally alone," he said snidely. "This won't itch at all."

Wilson rolled his eyes and settled back, a hand dipping idly into the underwear he'd borrowed from House. He would have to go by his and Julie's house soon to collect clothing. He didn't look forward to discussing this with her. She would go right to the question he'd been avoiding asking himself for the past few days: so, are you gay? He didn't think he was. He just happened to like fucking House. But that certainly made him bi-sexual…or something. Again, he pushed the thought away. Yes, he'd dreamt about House before this happened. Yes, he'd fantasized about House while he jerked off. Yes, he'd initiated this thing. But he also dreamt about women, jerked off to women, and initiated affairs with women. He was committed to this relationship, but he also didn't have any doubts about whether he would fuck a woman again in his lifetime. Whether House would be okay with it and when it would happen were two completely different questions, but he didn't even entertain the notion that he was off women for good.

House observed Wilson from the bathtub, wishing Wilson hadn't picked the Blue Oyster Cult shirt he loved so much. Wilson was being entirely too introspective: he needed a good splashing.

"So…you don't want me to blow you in the near future?" he asked sarcastically. "I'm hurt."

Wilson snapped out of it again and glanced at House. Oh. House had been watching. He wanted to know what was up. "Just wondering how Julie will react," he said.

House sniffed. "I'm spread out naked in front of you and you're thinking about her?" he said with affront.

"Wondering if she'll think I'm gay," Wilson said. He pulled his hand out of the boxer briefs: this wasn't going anywhere. He had to tend to dinner anyway.

"Oh darling," House lisped in a cracked falsetto, primping imaginary hair with one hand and turning the other limply in Wilson's direction, "we'll practice the look and the style and she'll know you're fabulous."

Wilson shook his head at House, smiling: you're incorrigible.

"I'm going to go check on the steak," he said, getting to his feet.

"You're such a man, Jimmy," House continued. "I'm so hot for you right now."

Wilson snorted a laugh and closed the door behind him. House was certainly comfortable with his sexuality—or comfortable mocking Wilson's concerns, either one. Wilson wondered as he turned the steak over whether House had ever fantasized about him, or if he was just going with this. He got the impression that House was serious. The back rub yesterday, paying for lunch, apologizing today—those weren't things House did. It wouldn't make sense for him to do them if this was all a whim. But Wilson wasn't used to being the one who was open about his feelings in a relationship. It made him uncomfortable, despite the fact that he genuinely wanted House to know how he felt. He wasn't naïve enough to think House would suddenly start spouting sonnets, but it would be nice to hear him say the words. He knew it would be a cold day in hell before that happened, but a guy could dream.

He checked on the potatoes and had just opened a pre-packaged salad when House called him again.

"I'm pruning. Get your ass in here."

Wilson sighed and shook his head. House was utterly incorrigible. Then again, if he didn't get in there before House's extremely limited patience ran out and he slipped trying to get himself out of the tub.


"In there? By yourself? Shame."

Wilson smiled, shaking his head again as he padded toward the bathroom.

"Mmmnnnffn," House said through a mouthful of steak, "you gotta do this every day."

Wilson grunted. "Iffs not polite to talk wiff you mouff full."

House nudged him and grinned. "So," he swallowed, "tell me this. A guy who can cook and you can't stay married? Am I going to find out about some horrible gas problem or a killing spree you've been covering up for years?"

Wilson shrugged noncommittally and forked potato into his mouth. "You tell me yours, I'll tell you mine."

House raised his eyebrows. "Ooo, secrecy, I like it."

"Man of myfftery."

"That's very attractive."

"Daff's right."

House nudged him again and dug into the steak on his plate again. He made another deeply satisfied noise.

"Glad you like it so much," Wilson said. "You're doing the dishes."

"We'll see about that," House muttered into his beer bottle.

Wilson glared at him but let the remark go. With his culinary skills and House's love of eating food that didn't belong to him, Wilson knew he'd see a scrub brush in House's hand before the weekend was over.

They chewed in silence, 'ohhh'ing and 'nooo'ing at the basketball game on the television, slurping their beers. The post-dinner hangover passed in silence too, but with fewer expressions about the game. Slumped on the couch, legs on the table, hands resting on stomachs and groins, they both realized that this was becoming a pattern. Happy, sleepy, and full, they each concluded that it was a pattern they could easily live with.

House was the first to break the post-food coma.

"So…you made me take a bath, but you didn't stick around to enjoy it," he said. "Am I stinky?" He caught himself and added, "Er, stinkier than usual?"

"You really think food magically appears?" Wilson asked.

"Sure it does," House said. "You call the Food Stork and he brings it to your door and if he's quick about it, you tip him."

Wilson quirked an eyebrow. "Food like this?"

Annoyed that Wilson had caught him, House changed the subject. "So I am stinky." He pretended to be offended, turning his head, nose in the air, hands going to his hips. "Well. I'm not putting out anymore!"

Wilson just rolled his eyes. His thoughts had turned to the impending sexual contact between them and he was getting nervous. Aroused, definitely, but also apprehensive. He needed some time alone to think and he was searching for some way of making that happen when suddenly he had it. Just in time, too, because House was beginning to make eyes at him.

"I'm, ah, going to go to the bathroom," he said, wishing he didn't sound scared.

House scrutinized him, trying to detect who knew what.

Realizing he didn't need House's permission, Wilson got to his feet.

"Light a match!" he heard House call.

He smirked despite himself.

Ten minutes later, the smirk was long gone and Wilson was sitting on the toilet in the Thinker position, seriously considering what was about to happen.

He wanted House to fuck him, but if House could fuck him without the whole dick in the ass thing, that would be preferable. He certainly didn't mind a finger or two up there—that felt great—but House's dick was entirely too big. He remembered all the resistance he'd encountered last night, the way House had stiffened. Even with his high threshold of pain, House had admitted it hurt. Then again, after the first part was over, House had been on another planet. It was even better for him today at lunch. Wilson knew that a genuinely pleased sex partner would fall asleep as soon as they were done. House had been snoring before they'd hit the ground today. And House who'd insisted they keep this a secret and had promised he'd be quiet was even louder today than he was last night. Of course his secretary had found out. The whole fourth floor probably heard them. Maybe House was always that loud during sex. He didn't know. But House had been quiet when they'd jerked off in the clinic and he'd been quiet a few nights ago when Wilson had blown him. He was capable of being quiet. He had been in control then. But when he'd fucked him, House had lost control completely. Hence all the noises: he couldn't stop himself. Yes. That made sense. And if House who always appeared so impulsive but was really always in control, directing and manipulating, could lose that control… And then there were those dreams Wilson had where House was fucking him.

He closed his eyes, hand going to his dick. Why not squeeze out the easy one right now? If he was going to lose all control later—and he was, the rush of blood to his dick when he thought about those dreams had decided it for him: this was going to happen—why not make it the hard-to-get second one? It would relax him. All of his orgasms had been with House for the past two days. It would be nice to have a private one that was just for him.

He got up, wiped himself, and found the magazine he'd used a few nights ago when House was out with Cameron. He flipped around, trying to find a good page that wasn't already stuck together. House needed some new bathroom reading. Wilson turned to the page he'd used last time, but…oops. It too was stuck to another page. He'd forgotten about that. Part of the fun was coming on the model's face or breasts—that was why smut magazines thrived: inevitably all the good pages got stuck together and you were forced to buy a new one. He added buying a new magazine for the bathroom to his list of things to do, found a decent page, and decided to start with his right hand today.

She wasn't half bad, but the Catholic school uniform didn't do it for him. (Didn't do it for House either he noted or this page would be inaccessible.) She was just about to burst through her top and he pictured slipping a hand under the fabric to cup and squeeze. She giggled. He bent down to replace his hand with his mouth and—yeah, he was good now. He banished himself and added a tanned brunette to compliment the blonde school girl, watching as the brunette took his place sucking the blonde's tit. This was standard fair for him, one of his favorites and a standby that almost always worked when something new he was trying failed, and it was working like it always did now. He switched hands as the girls started making out, right hand cupping his balls, gently rubbing. He was breathing fast now—the blonde was eating the brunette and he liked that—and he was getting there at his usual bathroom jerk off pace. The brunette flipped the blonde and started humping her with abandon and then—yes, it was his turn, he was fucking the blonde. His left hand was flying and he was there, he was there, yes, yes, yes.

He exhaled, finished, and closed his eyes, letting the magazine fall shut and hit the floor before his spunk could run down the page and begin dripping. This was exactly what he'd needed. Sex was great, having his dick sucked was great, but sometimes masturbating by himself was what he needed. He was relaxed now and in another moment or two, he'd be ready to be fucked. It would be so much better now that the first easy one was out of the way. Now he could concentrate and last longer. He smiled, blinking languidly through endorphin-laden eyelids and rubbed the soft skin of his inner thigh where it met his pubic hair.

He was cleaned out and relaxed.