Wilson can't sleep. He lays in the dark, listening to House's even breathing, and his thoughts begin to wander.

Wilson has always liked to look at House's hands. Even before they were together, he would watch them when House played the piano, long and graceful, and elegant. He'd watch them when House was with a patient. His touch betraying his gruff exterior in the way he would use the sense of touch, interlocking with his other senses to come up with the remedy.

And mostly now, when they are in bed together, exploring one another like teenagers on a first date, Wilson can't help but be drawn to House's hands when they are caressing and discovering. Wilson can feel the difference between each of House's hands, just by the touch. The right hand is coarser, rough, and calloused from gripping the cane, the fingertips uneven from years of guitar playing. The left is softer, almost like Wilson's own.

Wilson longs to feel those hands running through his hair, down his body, enveloping his cock, and bringing him to the climax and release he so desperately needs. He rolls over in bed, and takes House's hand in his own, and begins to lick and suck at the fingertips. House begins to stir at Wilson's ministrations, rolls over, and runs a hand over Wilson's cheek, and through his hair, just as Wilson had imagined moments ago. Wilson surrenders into the caresses and echoes them. Hands begin exploring, wandering over each other's body until pajama bottoms are shed, and their hard, leaking cocks are pressed up against the other's. House reaches down and surrounds Wilson's member with his hand, and with a few quick strokes brings Wilson to an orgasm he desperately needed. Wilson reciprocates, and House having watched his lover come, has no problem coming with a muffled curse and sigh.

Wilson cleans the two of them up quickly, he can feel sleep coming, an after effect of the orgasm. House has already dozed back off, his breathing becoming more even. Wilson takes one of House's hands in his own, and falls into slumber.