Title: Pressure Valve
This is how it began.
Wilson was upset about, well, something or other. House wasn't sure. But it involved someone screwing something up real bad, and, whatever was on that paper. Wilson was flailing it around like it was glued to his hand. House wanted to see what was on the paper, so, when it made its next round from air to desk, House intercepted the return to air by slamming his hand down over Wilson's and examining the paper. Test results of some kind.
That was about as much was he'd grasped before he noticed the effect the seemingly innocent touchhad on Wilson.
Wilson wasn't entirely calm, but he also wasn't seconds from blowing his top like he had been a moment ago. His head was tilted towards the floor, his eyes closed.
Reveling. That was the only word for it.
House snatched back his hand and left the room.
They didn't talk about it because they didn't talk about things.
House considered the possibilities, wondering if it was, like so many things, about sex.
He ran a short series of tests involving touching Wilson in small unobtrusive places, even going so far as to laying a hand on the back of his neck. There was no response, though, unless you counted extreme discomfort on both sides.
No, it wasn't sex; it was something else. Something strange and hidden. Something interesting. House took it upon himself to replicate the initial events.
So, he walked into Wilson's office one evening.
Wilson, working late again, stressed, tired, stacks of paperwork up to his elbows, looked at House.
House grabbed Wilson's hands, laid them on the desktop and leaned on them.
Okay, it wasn't quite the original experiment but House was never a very good scientist anyway.
The effect was dramatic.
Wilson let out a long low sigh, and an awful lot of that stress seemed to seep out in the form of that sigh.
"It's holding you down," House said, smirking. "It's restraint. Kinky." He let up.
"Well, it's true."
"Who asked you?" Wilson snapped.
"Don't get mad." House leaned now on Wilson's left hand. "You'll undo all the good I did you."
And that was that.
House took to noticing Wilson's mood, and to slipping into Wilson's office and pressing his hands against the desk whenever House decreed it necessary. Wilson didn't have much say in the matter; in fact, he often didn't look House in the eye before, during or after. He did however breathe a little slower, smile a little happier and generally look a little less ready for an overnight in the psych ward.
Not that the yellow wing wouldn't have helped, House was fond of thinking. After all, the first thing they did after a full-scale freak-out was chain you to the bed.
It wasn't until much later, nursing a drink in his living room, that he wondered if maybe it was still, a little bit, about sex.
This is how it escalated.
House let up on Wilson's hands one day and Wilson breathed in sharp. He didn't move, but kept his hands pressed flat against the desk and his face lowered. "I need…" Wilson began, then trailed off. His eyes were shut, and his voice kept cracking in inopportune places. House stared at him. "It's not working," Wilson said after a moment. "I need…more?"
So House held his head against the desk until he breathed slow and easy.
Like most slopes, this one had a certain amount of slip.
Once Wilson could ask for more, it wasn't long until he was initiating the process. He started coming to House, eyes to the floor, murmuring, "Could you…"
Could you? Hold me? Grab me? Restrain me? House never found out what Wilson called their little game in his head. It was always just "Could you…"
When Mrs. Rafferty died of a heart attack two days after her remission began, House grabbed him by the throat and pressed him against an exam room wall.
When three of Wilson's chemo kids died within four hours of each other, House pulled Wilson's hand behind his back and pressed him face first over the edge of the balcony until his eyes swam from the height.
When the divorce finally came through, House crossed Wilson's hands across his chest and held him in a silent bear hug for nearly an hour.
It increased in quantity as well.
They went from once a week to twice. Then every three days. Then more, until Wilson couldn't get through a weekend without rushing over to House's apartment begging for a hard hand in a soft place.
This was the point of no return.
They were in Wilson's office, twenty minutes before a board meeting. Wilson lay, sprawled on his back on the floor, his arms over his head, House pressing his wrists into the carpet.
"Is this weird?" Wilson asked.
"Oh, yeah," House said, "Totally."
And the sun was coming through the blinds and the day was hot and still and perfect.
So House kissed him.
Soft, the merest brushing of lips against lips.
Wilson jerked his hands away and scrambled to his feet, out the door, to his meeting, just barely mumbling, "Don't push," under his off-rhythm breath.
And House sat alone on the office floor.
This was how it ended.
They avoided each other for a few days. House could see the tension rising in Wilson's walk, and in the way he spoke and the look in his nurse's eyes.
Then came a Friday night. It was muggy and raining.
When the door opened, neither spoke. Wilson just barged past House, spinning him on his cane. The door shut behind him.
"I can't…" Wilson began, "I need…"
He was dripping wet, his hair in his eyes. He looked down. House looked down too. The space between them was only a few floorboards, no matter what it felt like.
"Could you…?" Wilson asked.
"Could I what?" House snapped, then immediately regretted his tone, "Could I what?" He repeated, his voice lower.
"You know." Wilson said, matching House's low tone.
And House did, but he was angry and he was hurt and confused, and he didn't like where this had led.
Wilson held out his hands.
House seized Wilson's wrists, dropping his cane and pulling their bodies close, whispering "My way."
Wilson nodded. House steered Wilson back through the apartment, until they toppled onto the bed. His leg, his good leg of course, slipped between blue denim, and all his weight pressed Wilson into the mattress. The springs resisted nicely, and to Wilson it felt like slipping underneath a wave.
"Yes…" Wilson said, his voice rough, and, if his temples were wet, who's to say it wasn't from the rain?
So House kissed him again.
And this time it was hard and heavy, and he couldn't run away because he was covered by that weight.
"This is my way," House said, and they kissed again.
Soon, Wilson's wrists were released and he was grabbing for a handhold. Soon there were gasps, and the removal of wet clothes, and the tasting of wet skin. Soon he was being pressed even harder face first into the bed, and mumbling, "God...House…feels so good."
And then there wasn't anything, and it was still and hot and perfect and he was falling asleep with an arm around his chest keeping him still and steady.
That is how it ended, and that is how it began.