What's A Massage Between Friends?

By Carnifax
House M.D.
Rated T
"Do you—" he said through gritted teeth, "Do you even—even know—what you're doing?" (HouseWilson)

This is what happens when I get in the mood to write humorous almost-smut and have approximately four songs on my playlist. (Goodnight, Goodnight and Our Time Now and Rapido y Furioso (Reto Tokio) and Fluorescent Adolescent. It's like music OTP…)

The following is in no way phrased to sound even remotely sexual. (…not.)

"House? What's wrong?" James Wilson stood over his friend who, at the moment, was sitting at his desk with his head in his arms, fists clenched until his knuckles were white.

"Leg," came the answering grunt.

"What about it?"

House sat up, hissed in a breath, and scowled. "It hurts."

Wilson smirked and tried his best pediatrician voice. "Well, House, you see, a while ago you had this surgery in your thigh, and what it did was—"

"No, not my leg, my hip." House gingerly tapped the offending joint, teeth nearly bared in pain. "It hurts, Wilson."

"And you haven't Vicodin'd yourself enough to mask it?" Wilson laughed. "I'm stunned!"

"You—damn it—forget anything I said." House put his head back in his arms, waving lazily with one hand. "Just turn off the lights and leave."

"The lights aren't even on all the way—it's still pretty dar—"


Wilson let out a theatric sigh. "I'm sensing some irony here. You make jokes out of people's pain, but when you yourself—"

"Wilson, stop it. Get out."

He didn't move, but he didn't ridicule either. Something was off: House had never had hip pain before, except for maybe when he was first learning how to walk with the cane, but other than that it was all leg. And even then, he'd never seriously complained—anything he said was an objection to get out of whatever duty Cuddy had assigned him.

"You're still here."

Wilson sighed again, genuine this time. "Yes, I am. Do you need any help?"

"No." This wasn't like House, either. Usually his sentences were cutting and quick, not monotone groans of exasperation.

"Have you tried standing up? Walking around? Cracking your hip?"

Once again, House sat up, glaring furiously. "No," he snapped, "because honestly, I can't even move."

Wilson walked around the desk and extended a hand. House's response came before he could open his mouth: "No. Way."

"House, you're never going to move if you just sit there!"

"That was only redundantly obvious." House waved him out again. "Go."

"No—House, stand up." Wilson forcefully took House's closest arm and, silently thanking the swiveling chair, hoisted the diagnostician from his seat. The result was a heavy weight leaned against him and a choked-out yell from House.

When he looked at the older doctor, all he needed to see were the seething blue eyes to know that he hadn't done any good.

"Put me back," House hissed out, shifting his weight and stifling another outcry. "Wilson."

"Sit on the desk," Wilson muttered, pushing House slightly so that the man fell without ceremony onto said writing surface. A cup of pens tipped off the side and scattered, stray pieces of lead forever lost across the carpet.

"Which hip is it, now?" Wilson asked. House just glared at him for a moment until he pointed, apparently unable to speak.

Wilson had barely put his hand on House's thigh when it was swatted away. "I took a massage class for Bonnie," he said, by way of explanation. He didn't include how Bonnie had joked that 'maybe you could use it on Greg sometime—he looks like he might need it more than I do!'

"You won't," House grunted, but when Wilson pushed down on House's thigh, there was no time for anything but a muffled yelp.

"Relax," Wilson said. "I just need you to straighten your leg—put it on the chair—and then—"

"I c-can't move my leg, you du—ahhhh—" House grabbed the upper sleeve of Wilson's jacket, clenching it into his fingers as Wilson dug the tip of one thumb into his thigh. "Can't you warn a guy—"

Wilson shifted, putting himself closer to the belligerent muscle and, unintentionally, between House's thighs. Neither man realized, or if they did, Wilson's sudden motion of putting House's leg onto the chair made it too painful to talk.

"Do you—" House said through gritted teeth, "Do you even—even know—what you're doing?"

Wilson was too busy dealing with the insane urge to wrap House's propped-up leg around his waist to answer right away. "Of course I know what I'm doing," he finally managed after reminding himself that the hand clenching his arm was not from ecstasy and that the leg belonged to House, who was not a woman and certainly not Bonnie.

But as soon as the words were out of his mouth, his mind refocused on the panting against the side of his neck and the feel of thighs pressing against his own, and he mentally swore off ever offering to be a masseuse again.

"Ah," House said suddenly, a puff of cool air at Wilson's ear. House craned his neck back, tilting opposite of the hip.

"What're you doing?" Wilson asked with false indifference.

House didn't answer, and instead leaned farther back, straining to roll his hips forward. Wilson noticed the arched back and cast a furtive glance at his friend: If not for the pained tension in his expression, Wilson would've sworn the man was getting some kind of pleasure from it.

But then House's shifting put his good thigh lifted tightly against Wilson; the oncologist bit his lip to keep in a moan, hyperaware of the fact that if he moved just an inch forward, he would be crushed against House.

Again, House strained against Wilson's hand, forcing him to put more pressure on the leg just to keep it on the desk. The hand on his jacket tightened again, just as the door clicked open and light from the hall flooded in.

The noise made Wilson flinch; he accidentally exerted too much pressure on House's leg, and with an audible pop, the joint cracked—just as it was supposed to. House let out a yelp of, "Wilson!" and sagged, relaxed, back onto the desk.

And then Wilson remembered the door had opened. In slight horror, he looked up just in time to see Cuddy's manicured brow raise.

"Whatever you're doing," she said evenly, "just don't get it on the furniture."

I blame it on the new icon. (grin) "Bend over."

Review… Please? (puppy dog eyes)

'I wonder if you know how they live in Tokyo…'