But we're okay.

It's in the little things that House says which remind Wilson just how insecure House is. Which aren't actually little at all, not when it comes to House; not when it comes to revealing something as fragile as his insecurities.

After all, less is more.

Funny how that works in someone as overbearing as House. Though, at the same time, it makes perfect sense. House is only human. And Wilson knows all about being human, how much of a disease it is -- Wilson's just so damn good at seeming healthier than he really is.

Whereas everybody knows that House isn't healthy. People only have to look at his bum leg to see that for themselves. House knows that; he hides behind it. But the thing is, no man is an island, no wall is unbreakable, no shell is impenetrable. And when House says little (huge) things like but we're okay, House is smashing his own walls down. Without even trying.

Wilson wonders if House even realises this.

Yes, we're okay, House, Wilson thinks to tell him. Instead, "House, you are--" insecure "--as God made you."

Wilson decides as he walks away, leaving House standing by the entrance of Princeton-Plainsboro, that he'll find out for himself if House realises.

Not because he needs to, but because he wants to. Because he can.


The best way to make up with your best friend is to get completely wasted over a bottle of scotch while a Hitchcock film noir plays on the television at sublevel volume.

It's a scene House and Wilson have visited many times over their years of friendship. There's a greasy pizza box lying open and empty on the coffee table, with the (almost empty) bottle of Johnnie Walker Black standing next to that; magazines and ornaments pushed aside so they both have room to kick their feet up.

The only additive to this otherwise familiar situation is that Wilson's mouth is on House's. Kissing. Hard.

That bit isn't familiar.

Get the fuck off me, had been House's drunken words when Wilson first leaned in and brusquely pressed their lips together. No, Wilson had just as drunkenly retorted, and all it took was him craning his neck to catch House's mouth, insisting, until House relented.

Maybe it's just the alcohol in him, but House is a vicious kisser. There's nothing gentle about House's lips, nothing gentle in the coarse scratching of his stubble against Wilson's chin, nothing gentle in the way House has Wilson's hair fisted in his hands.

Wilson likes it. A lot.

He likes House's desperation. It seems almost… insecure. Like House is insecure about this whole thing, no matter how drunk he is, and Wilson can't help but smile to himself while he's kissing House's neck, when he hears House utter in a deep, scratchy voice, Wilsonnnn.

Oh, yes. Desperation. Insecurity.

Wilson's mouth moves back to House's and he slurs against it -- tasting of scotch and pizza -- "It's okay." He pauses to slide his tongue, hot and wet, along House's when House starts kissing him without inhibition, before Wilson pulls back just enough to break the kiss and adds, "We're okay."

"Are we?" House murmurs back.

Another crack appears in the walls.

Wilson smiles again. "Would I lie to you?"

"Yes," House replies, though he's so filled with lust and alcohol that he sounds anything but convincing. Like he's forgotten the potential magnitude of Wilson's lies.

The crack widens, enough so that the wall comes crashing down.

Wilson doesn't say anything in response; he just feeds House another wet, bruising and possessive kiss.


"Whatever it was that happened last night, it's never going to happen again."

"If that's what you want, House."



There's nothing quite like keeping House on his toes.

Wilson avoids House for a week. Silently pursuing him, without actually pursuing him at all.

Of course, he's already gained so much from House with so little effort that he really doesn't need to pursue House at all. But it's the way Wilson works -- he's so damn good at getting others to reveal themselves, without ever revealing a thing about himself. It's like a disease. He can't help himself. And he knows, deep down, that it isn't healthy.

But we're okay. He knows House is stewing over that. And what better way to make him stew over it than to avoid him as though everything isn't okay?

Wilson's therefore not surprised when House barges into his office with something that resembles insecurity in his eyes.

"You can quit playing your stupid games."

Wilson looks at him as though he hasn't got a clue what House is on about. "Pardon?"

He watches House wave his hand around. "This… avoiding thing you're doing."

"I was giving you some space," Wilson replies, and he says it with such conviction he almost believes himself.

"Space." House blinks, and then eyes Wilson suspiciously. "From what?"

It's Wilson's turn to wave his hand. "You know… from the other night. You said you didn't want it to happen again, so I figured you wanted some space."

He watches House watching him. "That's it?"

It's always in the tiny (huge) things that House says.

Wilson smiles. "That's it."

Wilson notices the look of relief in House's eyes. In some ways, he's surprised that House isn't pursuing the matter; normally, he's full-charge ahead with questions, trying to figure things out by puzzling them together. But this… Maybe he's too confused within himself to be able to ask questions, Wilson thinks. Or maybe he's feeling too insecure.

House nods, though he doesn't say anything as he leaves Wilson's office and Wilson decides with a satisfied smile that he'll pay House a visit tonight.


It's somewhere between finishing off the bottle of Chivas Regal Wilson bought on the way over to House's place, and Wilson lazily slurring that he's going to go home that he finds House slamming him up against the fridge.

There's a series of vicious kisses, teeth biting lips and hands roughly grabbing at clothes, before House says drunkenly, "I want you."

Another wall comes crashing down.

"I know," Wilson breathes against House's mouth, his hand reaching down between them to grope at House's crotch. He loves the helpless sound that elicits from the back of House's throat.

They stumble to the bedroom, and House hasn't even got all of his clothes off before Wilson's kneeling between his legs, sucking his dick like a complete novice (not that House gives a shit). When House comes, about four and half minutes later, Wilson sluggishly gropes for a tissue from the bedside table and spits the semen out onto it before taking his cock in his hand and he starts to jerk himself off. He's kneeling over House -- his other hand braced on the bed -- so House has a full view of what Wilson's doing, and there's a drunken Jesus fucking Christ, Wilson from House before Wilson comes.

Wilson collapses on the bed next to House with his arm slung possessively over House's chest. They fall asleep like that; Wilson's semen drying on the shirt House is still wearing.


Possessiveness probably isn't a smart thing to start feeling over something that's supposed to mean nothing. But this whole thing is addictive.

The thing is: Wilson doesn't know if he's addicted to House's insecurities, or if he's becoming addicted to House himself.

Maybe it's both.

Either way, it's not good, and Wilson knows it. It's messy when emotions start to come into things like this. Especially when he's losing focus on what this whole thing is about, and is instead starting to think of House as mine.


It's in the middle of the second month of them doing this whole thing that they fuck for the first time.

Wilson tops. He has to fight to be on top, shoving and pushing at House as much as House is shoving and pushing at him, until he manages to get House face-down onto the bed. House keeps struggling to gain dominance, especially when Wilson's lube-slicked finger pushes into him. Though, that all changes the moment Wilson touches him right there, and House can do no more but groan ohhh, god as he clutches at the sheets. Paralysed in pleasure.

So, Wilson keeps rubbing him right there with his finger, stroking that spot until House is pushing his ass up as though greedily wanting more. After Wilson rolls on a condom and slicks himself up, he starts pushing into House. Slowly.

Just watching the way House fiercely grips at the pillow and writhes beneath him, Wilson knows he's uncomfortable. In pain, even. He feels resistance as he pushes into him, and holy fucking god so fucking tight until he's deep inside House.

He fucks House slowly, cautious of causing any damage but when he changes the angle and happens to drive his dick right there, House cries out and the pace picks up. Wilson firmly grips House's hips and starts to thrust in and out at a rhythm that suits him until he starts coming.

House doesn't come, so Wilson rolls House onto his back and sucks him off until he does.

"How did we go from you screwing your patient, to you screwing me?" House asks a while later, as they lie beside each other (without touching) in the dark.

"Do you really want to talk about that right now?" Wilson replies, because he certainly doesn't want to talk about it. Any of it.

House seems to ignore him. "I don't know why we're doing this."

"Does everything need a reason?"

There's a short pause. "So, this means nothing to you."

"You're the one who originally said that you never wanted it to happen again," Wilson casually remarks.


House stays silent as he shifts on the bed and turns away so his back is facing Wilson. It's not just in the things House says that makes Wilson realise how insecure House is; it's also in the tiny (huge) things House does. Like this.

Actions speak louder than words, after all.

Wilson lies there, staring at House's back, and he knows the safest thing to do is to leave House be. Leave House suspended in insecurity. Yet, he rolls in towards House, right in until his naked body is spooned up behind House's, and he starts to rub his back. Mine, he's thinking to himself. Mine.

House doesn't say a word. But Wilson knows he's awake.

It's the point of balance where Wilson suddenly realises that he's not sure who's the more vulnerable one here -- the giver or the receiver. There's as much vulnerability in House's silence as there is in Wilson's possessive affection. He can't help thinking that maybe he's taken this whole thing too far. Because what will he have left if this ends?

Wilson hates how insecure that thought makes him feel and he finds himself slowly sliding his arm around House, until he's gripping House against him. Possessively. Needily.

Maybe, for Wilson, the first cracks in the walls are finally starting to appear.


House announces the following morning that this isn't a relationship, that it's never going to be a relationship, and Wilson doesn't know whether to feel relieved or scared.

For the first time, Wilson is the one who's silent.

Actions do speak louder than words.


They don't fuck all that often, but when they do it's hard, rough and merciless because that's the way House has grown to like it.

That's how they're fucking now: skin slapping against sweaty skin as Wilson thrusts hard and fast into House. He has one hand grasping House's hip while his other is braced against the mattress for leverage, and House is viciously gasping into the pillow, "Faster!"

Wilson comes, and because House never comes when he's being fucked Wilson rolls him onto his back and kneels over him as he jerks House off. He occasionally ducks his head to trail his tongue up the length of House's dick or over his balls until House reaches orgasm, and that's supposed to be the cue to move away from House because they're not in a relationship.

Not this time. Wilson leans down and kisses him. To his surprise, House kisses him back and before long they're in a tangle of limbs, kissing deeply and slowly like they're lovers. Wilson doesn't understand why House is kissing him like this, especially considering House is the one who'd said they're not in a relationship but he tells himself that not everything needs a reason. House is his, and that's all that matters.

Everything's okay, Wilson thinks to himself as House rolls him onto his back and starts to kiss his throat. We're okay.

For Wilson, that's the first wall to come crashing down.


Without any warning, House starts avoiding Wilson at work.

Or that's what it seems like because Wilson doesn't see him around anywhere near as much as he used to.

Or maybe he's just being paranoid.

Insecure. That word is beginning to haunt Wilson and he doesn't like the way it feels as though the tables are starting to turn on him.


It's for that very reason that Wilson finds himself smashing all of his walls down in one blow.

It's after they fuck that Wilson leans down to kiss House, and House lets him for a moment before he breaks the kiss and turns his head away. Wilson keeps kissing his cheek, touching House gently with his hands and the conflicting feelings of possessiveness and insecurity start to consume him.

Perhaps they get the better of him, because he murmurs against House's cheek, "I love you."


"No, you don't." House's response is flat and without emotion.

"Yes, I do."

"No." House turns his head and looks at Wilson. "You don't. You need me. You like using me. You like playing games. You're a sick son of a bitch. You don't love me."

Wilson stares at him and swallows hard. Do you love me? he wants to ask, not because he thinks House does, but because he wants House to need him.

It's as though House reads his mind; House says a beat later, "I don't love you. I like using you because you let me. But the problem with you is you never know where to draw the line."

Wilson continues to stare at House for a long moment before he silently rolls off him and lies on his back. This whole thing was supposed to be about House's insecurity, not Wilson's. But somewhere within all of this Wilson's managed to completely blur the line between manipulation and reality, and he's somehow convinced himself that this is more than it really is.

That's how all of his relationships end up. House is right -- he never knows where to draw the line because he can't help himself. It's like a disease.

He rolls onto his side so his back is facing House and he silently stares across at the wall.


"But we're okay," Wilson finds himself quietly asking House a few hours later, breaking the thick silence that's settled between them. It's the tiny (huge) things that Wilson says which reveal just how insecure he is, when he knows he has nothing left.

"You're as God made you," House dryly replies.

In spite of himself, Wilson smiles ironically and he finds that he's okay with that. He's okay with House using him. It's better than nothing -- at least he won't be alone.

It's not healthy, but it's okay.