AN: basically chapter 4.2, I'm finishing up their honeymoon. The next chapter will take place during season 7 (minus the Huddy and Wilson/ Sam thing obviously) but it's going to be a little while.

Once sedated, House slept for fourteen hours. He woke up starving, in pain—mostly from his thigh—and terrified that his knee was no better than it had been 'last night.' In fact, he refused to even try to climb out of bed (despite a rather desperate need to use the bathroom) because he was so afraid the problem would be permanent. I tried telling him that I wouldn't sleep in a bed he'd used as a toilet but he just smiled and asked if I had thought to bring a bedpan along with my other medical supplies.

"Yes I did," I replied. He held out his arm. "I thought about it, but didn't actually pack one." Greg sighed. "If you want, I could try to carry you to but if I get a hernia or throw out my back, I will strangle you." Finally he allowed me to help him sit up. House slowly pulled himself to his feet, trying to keep all his weight on his good leg. Then, he stood, swaying for a moment. "It's alright; I've got you," I swore, wrapping my arm around his waist.

"I'm okay, Jimmy. Well, not…but I'm, you know. I'm a little stiff. And not in a good way," he joked, trying to act as though everything were normal. "But I can bend my knee unassisted now. Pain's not too bad either." I nodded but let him lean on me anyway.

House complained of boredom when I gave him his morning meds, along with some French toast and scrambled eggs, I'd gotten from room service several hours earlier. But he ate, took the pills, and even let me massage his knee, along every other part of his body below the waist. As I moved down his back, Greg seemed to be calming down. By the time I reached his calf, he was all but melting into the mattress. "You feel relaxed yet?" I asked, sliding my hand down to his inner thigh, and letting the very tips of my fingers stroke my man's penis. He nodded "Is this okay?"

"Actually," his voice trailed of; so I started to pull away. "It's great!" He stiffened beneath my fingers. My own cock filled, straining against the front of my pants. "Did you get dressed to sit in bed and watch me sleep all day?" he mocked. My cheeks burned. "I guess you called Dr. Stern the second his office opened this morning?" I nodded, pressing a finger to my lips. "What I can't talk any—mmm—" His voice faded into a moan as I took hold of him, and lapped up a bit of pre-cum. I lifted my head, wrapping my fingers along the shaft. House pushed his hips up against my hand. I brought my lips back, wrapping them around as much of "little House" as I could. Greg panted. I sucked, watching his face.

I loved to see his face when he was smiling. House had never been truly happy, and the closest he got to happiness didn't come along very often. There were things I could do, places I could take him to get him to smile, and laugh and feel good. Sometimes if I made the guy feel really great while we were being intimate, this look would wash over his face. Pure joy. Seeing him with that expression was enough to make me cum. Twice. On this afternoon, he didn't get to enjoy things as much as I'd seen on other occasions but he was far happier than he'd been when I put him to bed, and he was still grinning long after.

"You are really good at calming me down," he confessed happily, "at loosening me up. But you almost never relax, not even after we do it. Not even when I'm give you a blowjob. And even if you manage to be somewhat calm while we're doing it, as soon as you're done, you go back to normal. So, I wanna try something, okay?" House looked like he wanted this more than anything in the world; so I agreed. To be honest, I've never considered myself all that tense. True, I had been extremely worried when we thought he might be getting sick, but now I felt fine.

"You can hear the waves from our room. And I know you're totally into that whole "picture the ocean" crap. So, this is like that in HD." I giggled, lying back, then closed my eyes, and took a few deep breaths, while concentrating on the ocean sounds and making a picture of the clear blue waters in my mind.

"That was nice," I said after a few minutes, and started to sit up, but Greg pressed me against the mattress. "What?" I opened my eyes and smiled up at him. "I feel very relaxed. Thank you"

"Just trust me, okay?" I nodded, and started picturing the water some more. I felt House's hands, warm and slightly wet, against my skin. He massaged the lotion, or possibly—since it was Greg—body wash into my neck, chest, and then shoulders. My muscles unclenched, and my mind began to drift off. I imagined my husband and I in the water, our naked bodies submerged to from the waist down, legs intertwined, arms wrapped around each other. We were kissing. As Greg's hand drifted down to my stomach, I started to feel like all the stuff I usually worry and obsess about weren't all that important. Yes, House would, eventually, get worse. The MS was going progress but worrying about what might happen would only stress both of us out more, and make even the smallest of problems seem astronomically worse. Plus, the more he worried, the more stressed his weakened immune system would become, and that could wreak havoc throughout his entire body.

House's hands were on my stomach by this point. I tried to concentrate on the ocean again, but the picture I now saw in my mind was different. The beach wasn't as clean but seemed more crowded than the one by our hotel but it still had a calming effect. House and I, and a small boy with reddish-brown hair and my husband's eyes. We were strolling barefoot along the shore, letting the water splash against our feet. Occasionally one of us would lean down, pick up a shell, and place it in the bucket the boy was carrying. The sky was that perfect shade of blue, and full of cotton candy clouds. For some reason this thought, this image helped me relax as well. I barely even registered the fact that House was finished with the rub down. "Wakey, wakey, Wilson," he called out, as he wrapped his fingers around my dick. I opened my eyes and looked up into those gorgeous baby-blues, and I smiled.

He rolled a calloused thumb over the head as he stroked. "There," he exclaimed. "That's the look. It's the face you make when you're completely relaxed." I giggled. "So what did you see?"

"Well, it would be kind of difficult to explain. Especially right now. Finish here, and then we'll discuss it. After that we can go out for dinner." I had barely gotten the words out as he slid my throbbing hardness into his mouth, and started to suck vigorously. "So is your knee completely better or are we going to be picking sand out of the wheelchair for the next year because we took it to the seashore once?" I asked after he was done.

He rubbed his thigh. "I know it hurts Baby, but it always hurts right?" A quick nod answered for him. "But you are better than you were last night?" He said, yes. "Let's go to the beach." Greg shrugged. "Wanna grab something to eat that isn't room service? Me too—I wouldn't mind if we walked—by which I mean I'll walk and you'll use the chair—around downtown, took a look the shops, and watched the perfectly bronzed/ muscled surfer boys run around shirtless and in tight shorts. Maybe we could sit somewhere, sipping insanely overpriced tropical drinks with more ice than alcohol, and maybe break in the digital camera your mom gave us as a wedding present." House giggled and crawled into my lap.

"We don't have to leave the room to use that camera," he whispered, breathily. The idea of taking dirty, sexy pictures of me and my husband (that only the two of us would ever see) seemed like one of the hottest things he'd ever suggested. However, I really wanted to get him up and out of the room. I wanted to be sure we got the full Hawaii experience.

"I promise, Baby; we will make some really, really, really hot porn, later tonight. We can play with the lighting, brush your hair, and maybe try out the black and white feature, all kinds of cool stuff." He nodded, and let me pick out some clothes for him to wear out, pair of jeans that gently squeezed his ass into the most sublime shape and a dull yellow Hawaiian (ish) shirt, with a Stones concert tee underneath. I wore beige shorts, and a plain blue t-shirt. We stayed close to our hotel that night, just to be safe. When we got back to the room, Greg was still a bit groggy and so he and I went to bed early.

The next morning, we got in our rental car and made the trek up the North Shore (and what a trek it was) where we checked out the scenery, shopped, and looked for a restaurant we'd read about in one of the guide books. It claimed this place was the best in all of Hawaii. Greg and I arrived just in time to eat dinner at a table on the patio near a cliff, overlooking the water into which the sun was melting beautifully, shooting out rays of pink, gold, orange, and purple as it dipped under the sea.

"I guess it's colorful. Sort of nice," Greg admitted, taking a swig of beer, and cracking open a lobster claw. "If you wanna snap some g-rated pictures to show my mom, and Cuddy, and people at work, or whoever…I'll pose with you for them." I had pulled over the car, and gotten out to take snapshots of my husband, the scenery, myself, House and I cuddling together/ hugging each other in front of floral or beach backgrounds. I pulled my chair up closer to him, and stroked his hair.

"You know what I think?" He responded with raised eyebrows and a furrowed forehead. "I am happy here, relaxed even. And so," I whispered, kissing him softly. "Are," Another kiss. "You." I gave him one more kiss. He shrugged, nuzzling my neck. "I think we should try and get jobs here. In Hawaii. Perhaps as the doctors in residence at some hotel or resort." He really seemed to like this idea, as a fantasy, as a game. "We can live in a hut on the beach, have picnics and go swimming everyday. We can find the best neurologist on the island, or maybe someplace else if we have to. It'll be fine and, as soon as you get used to the humidity, I think the warm weather and lack of rain or snow, plus the way that absolutely everything here has fruit and or fish in it, you will stay healthier for much longer, and be more comfortable in general."

He smiled, patting me on the shoulder and indulging me a little. He even said, "It's a nice idea," and took the camera, as I posed in on the edge of the balcony, my arms behind me, palms gripping the railing, and a snapshot grin on my face. Then I moved my hands to my hips, thrust out my scrawny chest, batted my eyelashes, and pouted. "That's a keeper," Greg cooed. I returned to the table, wrapped my arms around his shoulders, and the two of us began to slow dance to background music. "Wake me when the sappy part is over," my husband instructed, laying his head on my shoulder and pretending to snooze.

"It's never going to be over," I taunted. I'm pretty sure I saw a hint of a real smile before the eye rolling started. We finished our meal, took a few more pictures and drove back to our hotel.


House and I spent the next few hours carefully posing in various levels of nudity and some provocative, some just "cute" as he called them. Although I managed to relax enough to enjoy being photographed, I did not start out that way. Greg, sensing my unease, kissed me on the cheek, and started grinding against my hips softly.

"How about I play "supermodel' first. You seem to love taking pictures of me anyway." He giggled as he removed his concert tee, and slid the unbuttoned, yellow shirt back over his naked torso, letting it hang open to reveal his thin, slightly tanned chest and stomach. Mostly shirtless, Greg sat on the floor and leaned against the wall. He slid his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans, looking up at me and smiling the tiniest bit.

"Very nice," I whispered, fixing his hair a little before capturing the image. My second picture was of House shirtless, and with his fly undone, the pieces of denim hanging open. His hands lay against the floor, and he was still leaning against the wall. The next few shot showed him, sliding his pants and boxers off. After that, he climbed—fully nude—onto the mattress lied down, and spread out. He continued to position his body, wrapping one fist around his hardening member, placing the other under his neck, giving me what he called a 'come hither' look. I raced over, turned off and put down the camera, and helped House feel a little more comfortable.

"We better go slow with your pictures, Baby,' he instructed "I'm gonna need about twenty minutes before I'll be ready to screw you properly. Otherwise, you end up finishing before I can start, or feeling "blue." I pouted. "Hold that pose." He snapped a close up of my face and pursed lips, which—according to him—looked very sexy.

"I was really excited by the idea of taking pictures of you but um…nobody is going to see these right?" I asked, my voice barely squeaking out. It wasn't that I didn't trust House but he has poor impulse control. He was the guy who found and then handed out copies of pornographic movie (staring me!) made by a friend from college to the entire hospital staff. Everyone snickered and pointed, and chanted, "Be not afraid," for months.

"The best part about you and me being married means that I am the only one who ever gets to see your naked body from now on. If you want we can even stick them in a password-protected file on your computer. A password you pick and don't tell me. You can put your porn in there too, if you don't want me to see it." I opened my mouth to tell him I didn't look at Internet porn. "Wuss," he mocked, smiling up at me, and reaching over to muss my hair. "You look cute with bed head."

Greg kissed me on the cheek and added, "Why don't you put on a nice shirt and tie? I have an idea. It'll help you calm down and give us some extra time." I did as he said. As soon as I put on the shirt, Greg popped open the first three buttons open, loosened my tie, and pushed it off to the side. "Stand by the doorway with your briefcase under your right arm, and use your left hand to make it look like your taking your tie off, after the end of the day." I did. "Lift the purse a little higher. Don't look at me that way. If you don't want me to tease you for something you do, stop doing it. And a bag that looks that much like a purse…you're asking for it." I let out a very small laugh.

He asked me to do the "male model pose," with my jacket slung over one shoulder. "It's dorky and a bit ostentatious but I think you can make it look sexy." I smiled weakly. It felt nice, having someone fawn over me again.

"I'm a little nervous—obviously. So, thank you for being nice enough not to push me," I told him, took a few steps forward, and kissed my husband on the mouth. I even let him take a stereotypical snapshot of us kissing, holding the camera in front of us.

"I love you, Wilson." He stared into space for a few moments. "Hey, Jimmy…mind if I don't take your last name? Mine may have belonged to an abusive bastard, because of whom I do secretly—sometimes—wish Hell actually does exist. I might even hope that John House is there right now, suffering/ paying for what he did to me and my mom and a lot of other people. But I've made a name for myself as Dr. Gregory House. Who's going to go see Dr. Wilson diagnostician?" He looked at me, and saw the slightly hurt expression I was hoping wouldn't show. "That wasn't a shot. Just—most people are too stupid to realize he and I are the same person."

"I think I'm ready to lose the shirt now, and these pants only look good on me when I've got one on. So, I guess they have to go too, huh?" House nodded and helped me get undressed. "I have no idea what to do."

"It's okay, Jimmy," he swore. "Let's lose the pants, and unbutton the shirt like this," he instructed, pulling the sides of it apart, slightly. "And put your hands on your hips, like your pulling your boxers off." I did. Greg dropped to one knee, tilting the camera upwards, still grinning.

"Now what," I asked, pressing on his shoulder, and pushing him onto both knees. He yanked my underpants down a little so that my ass and hips were hanging out. "Shirt off," Greg instructed. I did as he said, trying to keep smiling as the shutter clicked, capturing my every movement. As he surveyed my body, House rolled the tip of his tongue over his lips. I wanted to knock him over and jump the guy right there, but when he said, "I'm gonna hand the camera over to you now; just get what you can okay? We'll play around with the timer and stuff tomorrow," I realized he been feeling the same thing for at least the last few shots.

"I'm not going to get anything today; let's turn the camera off for a bit, okay?" House nodded, excitedly, as I put the Nikon down and climbed into bed with him.

The next few days were pretty much identical, and pretty much perfect. In the morning we got up between 9:30 and 10:00, ate amazing food, went to the beach, shopped, swam—well fooled around in the water and splashed about—made love, and did some touristy stuff along the way. His leg wasn't hurting any more (or any less) than it usually did, and his knee was basically fine by the time we started packing up our things to leave. Okay, I packed; House sprawled out on the bed, and watched but he was fine. We came home without incident, and our lives went on as they had before Greg's knee started to bother him. In fact, the meds, and the newish doctor, combined with the antacid, and my "insanely overprotective, anal-retentive" care was enough to get us through the next year without a single incident.