Wilson felt like he was in a showdown. House had asked if he wanted to come over for pizza and movies, and Wilson had told him he already had plans with Amber. Wilson remembered how House had stiffened at his reply, told him it was his loss, and stalked off. All he had wanted to do was to avoid House for the rest of the afternoon, so that he wouldn't see the guilt that was written all over his face. Of course he couldn't manage that, and had run into him in the hallway. After what he had thought was a pleasant hello between the two of them, House of course had to add insult to injury. Wilson could still hear his words echoing. "Hey Wilson," House had called down the hall toward him. "I meant what I said that day. It wasn't just the drugs talking." House had given him a careful look, and turned the corner, not bothering to look back.

Wilson didn't need clarification. He knew exactly what day House had been talking about. It wasn't every day House nearly killed himself. Granted, with House these things happened more frequently than with any other normal person. But now Wilson was caught in some sort of showdown; some power play and he had no idea what to do.

What he did know was that he needed some time to think. So he called Amber and told her he had a critical patient that needed attending to, and that he would be late coming home. He apologized profusely, and she bought it. The lying still comes easy, he thought to himself. How many times had he done that with his wives? He sat in his office for close to two hours, not coming any closer to figuring out what he should do, or what he felt, or how he was supposed to feel. Finally, he decided to go and see House, to try and make some sense of all of this. He grabbed his coat and briefcase, and locked his office door behind him. He quickly checked on his critical patients, so that it wasn't 100 a lie, and then headed out the door to his car, and to House's apartment.

Wilson tentatively knocked at House's door. He was so worked up over this whole situation; he didn't hear House's uneven steps as he approached the door. House swung the door open, slice of pizza in his mouth, his other hand on his cane. His eyes asked the question: "What are you doing here?" House stood back and allowed Wilson in, and the two headed into the living room. House sat back down with his pizza, and looked questioningly at Wilson, who still hadn't said a word.

Wilson ran a hand through his hair, and then settled his hand on the back of his neck, rubbing it slightly. "I told Amber I had a patient," he settled on saying. "Hmmm," House mumbled around his pizza. "I suppose it's good to keep practicing the lying, for when she becomes the fourth Mrs. Wilson," House said sarcastically, with a roll of the eyes. He turned back to the TV. Wilson continued to stand next to the couch, staring at House, and rubbing his neck. He had no idea what he was doing.

Wilson sighed, and flopped down on the couch next to House. He leaned forward and put his head in his hands. House turned his attention from the TV to Wilson. He wiped his greasy hands on his jeans, sniffed, and ran his hand over his face. "Wilson, why are you here," House asked, almost gently. House could feel the tension radiating from Wilson's body. Wilson sat up, and leaned back into the couch. He turned to House and said, "Why did you tell me that today? Why now?" The frustration was evident in Wilson's voice.

"I don't know. I guess I just wanted you to know. I wanted you to come over, and I figured that would send you into some sort of internal tailspin, and well see, here you are!" Wilson jumped up from his place on the couch, placed his hands on his hips and faced House. "You, you, you manipulated me! I told you I had plans! You didn't need to resort to childish immaturity to achieve your ends! You could have asked me to come over another time. House, I can't believe you!"

House stood up and took the step necessary to be standing next to Wilson, almost invading his personal space. "If I asked you to come over another time, then I couldn't do this right now." House leaned forward, grabbed the lapels of Wilson's winter coat, and kissed him.

Wilson wasn't sure when he realized that he was kissing House back. It was somewhere between finding that one of his hands was running through House's hair, and the feeling of his coat being pushed off, as it was evidently becoming a nuisance to House. Wilson pulled back from House, and looked at him. There was a slight smirk playing over his face, and the lines that normally etched his features weren't as marked. His eyes were filled with longing and desire. And in that moment, Wilson finally knew what he wanted and needed. That part of him, that had always felt empty, felt filled. He felt complete.

Wilson sank back down on the couch, pulling House with him, being careful to mind his leg. Forehead to forehead, Wilson looked into House's eyes. "I love you too," he said. He then proceeded to instigate a passionate kiss, feeling the heat rise off of House and himself.

Hands began to roam, touching this bit and the other. Wilson was vaguely aware that his shirt had become untucked and partially unbuttoned, and House had managed to have his dress shirt off, and his t-shirt pushed up to his chest, where Wilson's fingers were slowly circling one of his nipples. House was very aware that in his current state his jeans needed to be off, preferably about seven minutes ago. He had a feeling that Wilson probably felt the same about his dress pants. He broke the kiss, and pushed himself up and off of Wilson. He grabbed his cane with one hand, and Wilson's arm with the other. "Bedroom. Now," he demanded.

Wilson allowed himself to be half dragged, half pulled to House's bedroom, while trying to remove his dress shirt. By the time they made it into the bedroom House had managed to get his t-shirt off and his jeans unzipped, and Wilson had his dress shirt off and his pants around his ankles. Wilson practically lunged at House, knocking both of them to the bed. Wilson kicked his pants off as the two headed up the bed, toward the headboard. Wilson worked his way down House's torso, kissing, and licking and nibbling until he arrived at the waistband of his jeans. He pulled House's jeans off, feeling House tense slightly as the right leg of his jeans was pulled down. Wilson didn't want House to be self conscious about his scar; he knew that he was one of very few people who had seen it. So, he decided to make it a non-issue, by sliding House out of his boxers, and taking his hard, leaking, throbbing cock into his mouth.

That took House's mind immediately off of his leg. He wasn't even sure he could feel his legs, since all of his blood had somehow (because he knew it was medically impossible) rushed to his groin, and Wilson was doing this amazing thing with his tongue, and all he could feel was the heat and moisture of Wilson's mouth, and the lapping of his tongue and how good it felt. He also knew if Wilson kept that up it would be over in a matter of seconds. He pulled Wilson up toward him, and into a kiss. Wilson's torso was up against his now, and he could feel Wilson's hard member up against his body. House's hands began to explore Wilson's chest, his nipples, and traveled down to his groin. Wilson shuddered when House's hand made contact with his cock. He felt pleasurable sensations tingle all over his body; he almost couldn't bear it.

The two managed to synchronize themselves without issue, like they had done it a thousand times before; each pumping one another, changing rhythm at whim, based on how the other would breathe or kiss, nibble or moan softly. House came first, spurting over their intertwined hands and members, moaning Wilson's name.

Hearing House moan his name, Wilson came, shuddering, and moaning, crying out something unintelligible, that House thought sounded like, "fuck, oh God, House!" Wilson's head dropped on to House's chest. And then all they could hear was their breathing, rapid, and then slowing down gradually, as if they had just completed the Boston marathon.

Wilson was first to move. He somehow, instinctively knew House needed his Vicodin, so he got up slowly, not wanting to have House think he was running out on him. He placed a lazy kiss on House's lips, and then headed out into the bathroom. He came back with a glass of water and a washcloth. He cleaned them both up, and then found House's pills in his jeans. He handed them to House, with the water. House mumbled something that sounded like thanks, but in his satiated state he wasn't sure if his mouth was working. He downed the pills and the water (for once). Wilson finished off what was left of the water, and placed the glass on the bedside table, and moved closer to House, pulling the comforter up, not wanting the warmth to subside just yet.

House's blue eyes met Wilson's brown ones. There were no words that needed to be said. The look between them said it all. Wilson closed his eyes. "Night, House, Wilson heard himself say" "Night, Wilson," House sleepily replied. Wilson would keep this little tidbit to himself, how House was so pliant and docile after sex.

And as Wilson too headed off into slumber, he figured he would deal with the fallout with her tomorrow. For now, the power play was over. He was where he wanted to be. Where he finally felt whole.