It was nearly 11:30. Wilson could see the flicker of the television in the dark apartment. House was either still up, or passed out in front of the screen. Wilson hoped for the former as he made his way up to the door.

House grumbled "Hope you brought pizza," loud enough to be heard through the door in response to his knock, Wilson used his key to let himself in.

"They closed at 11."

"Damn." House lay on his sofa, but sat up a little, swiped a hand across his face. "What's got you out so late?"

The question didn't need an answer, and Wilson dropped onto the couch next to House with a sigh. He leaned back, hand at his neck, and rolled his head from side to side.

"You're tense."

"I can't do this any more, House." His eyes darkened with anger, with hopelessness, with weariness. House inwardly cursed Julie, for whatever she had done this time.

"Go in the bedroom, take off your clothes, and lay down," House instructed.

Wilson blinked at his friend, a befuddled expression wrinkling the edges of his weary face. "I…"

"Just do it," House huffed and heaved himself off the couch. He grabbed his cane and limped into the kitchen.

Wilson looked over his shoulder at him, shook his head, and disappeared into the bedroom.

"Leave the tie on," House spoke from the door. He'd loosened the knot, but hadn't quite pulled it free. His bro arched in question, but House had already shifted his attention. He set two bottles of beer on the bedside table and went into his bathroom.

Wilson tugged his collar out from under the tie, unbuttoned the shirt and let it fall. His T-shirt waved to the ground next to the dress shirt. He kicked off his shoes, let his pants fall to his ankles.

"Everything off," House called from the bathroom just as Wilson reached for the beer.. "And lay on your stomach." House emerged with a small bottle of massage oil.

Wilson grunted, but did as he was told, stepping out of his boxers. He crawled on to the bed and lay with his swollen cock trapped between his belly and the mattress.

House stripped down to his boxers and sat beside Wilson on the bed, situated his right leg so it was out of bumping range. He took a long sip of his beer, then poured a generous amount of the oil on Wilson's back between his shoulder blades and applied a bit to his hands as well.

He rubbed his hands together to heat the oil before laying his hands on Wilson's back. The oil made his skin slick, but also allowed House to work his hands against the tight muscles he encountered. He had Wilson purring within a minute.

"Don't fall asleep on me, Slick," he whispered.

"Wouldn't…do that…" Wilson half moaned, words slurred as if he were drunk.

House wasn't a trained masseuse, but he'd learned what worked from years of rubbing at his own thighs and knees. He moved his hands in a circular pattern, pressing hard against the muscle, thumbs pinpointing the worst of the knots.

"You have…magic hands," Wilson cooed.

House smiled and eased his hands down to Wilson's lower back. He found the muscles there as tight as his shoulders. Wilson's hips rolled under his touch, and Wilson buried his face against his hands to try to stifle a moan.

House laughed softly in his throat and leaned down to kiss Wilson's neck, just above the tie he still wore.