A/N-thanks to theletterv! Any remainging typos are mine.

Waiting in the Wings

The first had been blonde, perky, and (judging by how she'd somehow slipped 'I was recently dumped' into the conversation) needy. She'd given him an amazing massage, their conversation had been stilted (which was his fault, really) and he'd turned down a happy ending.

The second had red hair, larger in the breast area, and silent. She'd been a better masseuse, and when her hands had decided to give special attention to Wilson's inner thighs, he had politely dismissed her.

On the third day, there had been another hooker. The other two had been gorgeous, of course, but she was the hottest by far. When sheremoved her tan trench coat, she revealed nothing but an AC/DC shirt stretched across her ample breasts and lacy black booty-shorts. She'd talked about movies and video games, along with working her way through medical school (doubtful) and as tempting as it had been to let her have her way with him, he'd still declined. She'd tried to persuade him for a minute or so, because it was clear that he was interested-the towel didn't do much to hide that fact-but he insisted, and she left, pouting in a surely fake way, as it was too attractive to be real.

Wilson knew House was sending them. He half assumed it was an apology for the balcony stunt, because despite the fact they hadn't talked about it since it had happened, House must've heard him scream out; had seen him leave. Still, that didn't seem right-sending hookers to give him massages was nice, but why not just stop at one? Did he want Wilson to have sex with them? If so, then why? Was House's version of an apology getting him laid, not the massages? They hadn't seen each other since House jumped from the balcony-maybe he was trying to coax Wilson back to the hotel?

It wasn't that Wilson was opposed to sleeping with hookers, per se, it just wasn't his . . . thing. He wasn't innocent, of course. He'd slept with a hooker once, but he had never had problems finding one night stands on his own without having to pay. Perhaps for some drinks, but not for the sex. Besides, it felt somehow . . . strange to sleep with a hooker that someone else had paid for, especially House. Wilson wasn't used to House buying him things. And since none of the hookers had brought up the subject of payment, he assumed House had already paid for it; just like he'd paid for the breakfast with the strawberries for the two of them, and the massages then, too.

When he heard the knock on his door, he knew it was another hooker before he even stood from the couch. The other hookers had taken him to his bedroom for the massage; hadn't set up the tables like they had at the hotel, so he knew that it was about more than getting his back rubbed. House wanted him to have sex. But why? Was it an apology? Would the hookers stop showing up if he did? Or was it a specified quantity? And if it wasn't an apology, what was it?

There were more quick knocks on the door, insistent even, and Wilson unlocked it with a click before opening it.

To reveal a man.

Wilson blinked, and the guy plopped a lollipop out of his mouth. He was slightly taller than Wilson, wearing a thin white tee and sweats that a seemed slightly too large for his narrow frame, and large dark eyes. He had dark hair, too, and it hung a little on his forehead. He couldn't have been older that thirty. "Are you Wilson?"

"Uh . . . House hired you?"

"Depends on if you're Wilson," he said with a smirk, then stuck the lollipop in his mouth again.

Wilson stepped away from the door and opened it wider, then rubbed the back of his neck. He was in blue pyjama pants and a thin tee, as he'd been expecting another massage, but he hadn't quite expected . . . well, a man. "Did he send you because I turned the girls down?" he asked. "And, yes. I'm Wilson."

The guy shrugged casually and strode in, looking around the foyer and pulled the lollipop free with a plop. He let out a low whistle. "Nice place," he complimented with a nod, then met Wilson's eyes again. "I don't know anything about the girls. I just go where I'm told. So, speaking of going, where are we doin' this?"

He dropped his hand from his neck and rested his hands on his hips, mostly because he didn't know what else to do. Perhaps turning away the girls had made House suspicious about Wilson; not that Wilson didn't like women, because he did, but he liked men, too. House made jokes and sometimes gave him odd looks whenever he did something "gay" but . . .

"So, uh . . . Wh-what are we doing again?" he inquired, clearing his throat awkwardly when he realized his voice had squeaked a little in the middle, and then rubbed his neck with one hand, leaving the other on his waist.

"Massage." He stuck the lollipop in his mouth, wriggling his fingers. "Whassa matter?" he asked, before swirling his tongue and pulled the candy free again.

"Nothing. It's just-er. Didn't expect, um. A guy." He blinked, then cleared his throat.

The guy looked Wilson over and one eyebrow tilted up in appreciation. "I can go if you want," he said once he met Wilson's eyes again, the colour just a tad lighter than his own. Although he was suggesting leaving, his tone had an undertone that made Wilson's insides squirm in a way that had taken the other hookers hand-on contact to produce. It was deep and gruff, and Wilson didn't want to think of why that particular pitch had made his heart skip a beat.

"No, it's-it's fine." He swallowed again and watched as his masseur looked him over again rather obviously, enjoying his candy in a slightly more provocative manner than before. "Uh, we've always just done it in the bedroom." The guy smiled. "The massages," he added quickly.

The guy just smiled again and pulled the lolly free, before flicking his tongue against it and lowering his chin, the gleam in his eyes familiar, although the colour was wrong. "You have lotion?"

"Yes," he said, then turned around and cleared his throat again. Was House joking with him? Was House being an asshole? Or was it really just about the massages? Wilson snorted at that thought. It wasn't just about the massages. He knew House well enough to know that.

He went into his bedroom and shed his shirt, looking behind him to see the prostitute looking around his room and nodding to himself. He then eyed Wilson's bare chest and quirked an eyebrow. Wilson opened his mouth to say that it was just going to be a massage, but then he watched the way his masseur licked the red candy, and how he was obviously aware of the fact he was being watched.

"Has House ever-" he began to ask, but then stopped. He walked towards Wilson, smiling while he pressed the lollipop to his bottom lip. "Never mind." He went over to the bed and lay on his stomach.

He could hear the prostitute walking around his room and his heart leapt into his throat when he felt the bed dip with the weight of an extra person. House had to have suspected about him liking men, otherwise this man wouldn't be here, straddling his ass and reaching for the hand lotion on the night stand. It wasn't the first time he knew House had had his suspicions, but this was different than a curious narrowing of his eyes, or a joke made at his expense. He heard the quiet slurp of saliva around the lollipop but only because it was otherwise silent in the room.

He heard the click of the lotion cap closing, and the slick sounds of the prostitute spreading it between his hands. Although Wilson knew it was just him warming the lotion between his hands, it still sounded vaguely sexual and he hissed a little when he felt the hands touch his back; it wasn't freezing, but it was still colder than he expected. After a few deep rubs, though, it was comfortable.

His hands were larger than the women's had been, and he pushed harder; dug deeper. He smoothed the lotion all over his back, pressing and kneading Wilson's skin. Wilson let out a deep groan he tried to muffle with the pillow, but there was a quiet snicker and a tiny slurp around the candy so he knew the prostitute had heard him.

"What's your name?" Wilson asked, although he hadn't asked the others.

He heard a tiny plop and a crunching noise; the weight on Wilson's lower back disappeared and he saw the prostitute put the stick from his candy on the night stand. He heard tiny crunches and then he rested on Wilson's ass, and he could feel the fact the hooker was hardening. "Whatever you want it to be," he answered before rubbing his palms up Wilson's back gently; it sent shivers up his spine and he let out a quiet noise again.

Wilson had never been that great at naming things; that was why Bonnie had named their dog, and why he kept Sarah's name instead of changing it. So he didn't have any intention of naming the hooker.

He pushed the heel of his hands into Wilson's back and ground down against him; he felt the hardness against the cleft of his ass, even through the sweats and the pyjama pants, and he rolled his own hips slightly.

"Does House ever hire you?" he rasped.

"Yes." He scratched down Wilson's back and this time he full-on thrust against the mattress; the hooker laughed and rolled his hardness against Wilson.

Wilson ignored that and cleared his throat. "He hires you for massages?" he asked tentatively, although that wasn't what he really wanted to know.

"Sometimes," he revealed.

The southward rush of blood was sudden enough to twist Wilson's stomach and make him a little light-headed. The man currently straddling his ass, grinding against him lightly, was not unattractive by any means, and to imagine him and House sweaty and tangled up in the sheets, grunting and moaning-

"Are you hard?" the prostitute asked, his chest on Wilson's back and sliding along his skin. His lips grazed Wilson's ears; his voice was deeper than it needed to be.

Wilson nodded, the fabric of the pillow scratching his cheek.

He squeezed his shoulders roughly. "Do you want me to take care of that?"

Wilson froze. He wasn't a moron; if House sent a different hooker each time, and eventually sent a man, then clearly they were telling him everything they did. The first girl was blonde and 'recently dumped' so, according to House (and admittedly, he had a reason to think it) his type. The second had been hotter, but quiet; a completely different woman altogether. And nothing had happened still, and the third . . .

Brunette, blue eyes, AC/DC shirt . . . and she talked about video games.

House knew.

"Yes," he answered quietly, his voice small and almost swallowed by the pillow.

The man's weight disappeared from off his butt, and Wilson turned so he was on his back. Wilson watched as he straddled him again and ran his soft palms down Wilson's chest lightly, smirking from atop him, grinding down as Wilson bucked his waist upward. The shock of pleasure shot up his spine and he bit down on his lip when the hooker slid his hands back up his stomach and scratched lightly at a nipple.

Wilson had never been sensitive in that area, and after a few brief pinches the prostitute must've figured it out because he moved his nails lightly across his sides, where Wilson actually was sensitive and he arched his back. It didn't matter if he got off on it and the hooker went and told House anymore, because House already knew; otherwise he wouldn't have sent him in the first place.

"What's your name?" he asked again, mainly because it was odd, being touched this way and not knowing his name.

"Anything you want it to be," he replied again, rolling his hips against Wilson with more intensity.

Wilson thought about House doing this exact thing; imagined them grinding with nothing but sweats and pyjama pants then realized that he and House could be doing it too. On this very bed; on the couch, watching TV.

He groaned and the prostitute mirrored the noise. "What does House call you?"

"Jimmy," he revealed breathily, head tilting backwards and revealing his throat.

Just like that, a click went off in Wilson's head and suddenly, it was a flurry of motions and colours as he whipped off the hooker's shirt; switched positions and suckled on every bit of flesh he could find. He wondered how long ago House had done this very thing to this very person-or had he just sat back and let Jimmy do all the work? He could see that being the case. Either way, it didn't matter; he was kissing skin House had kissed; touching a man he'd touched.

A man House called Jimmy.

He kissed him; licked the taste of cherry sucker from his mouth; stroked him, and it wasn't long until hot, sticky fluid dripped around his knuckles and across his palm. Wilson was pushed roughly on his back-not that he minded, as he hadn't been gentle, either-and gasped when the hot, wet feeling of Jimmy's mouth descended on his cock; sucking, slurping, and stroking what he couldn't fit in his mouth.

It was wet, and hot, and the same mouth that had been on House's cock; the same mouth that had attacked House's lips. The grip on the base of his cock was strong; the strokes sure. Did he do that to House, too?

It wasn't very long before Wilson was squeezing his eyes shut and coming into his mouth; he sucked every last drop out of him, and by the time he came down from his high, Jimmy-or whatever his name was-was putting his clothes on and smiling politely at him. Had he been with a wife or girlfriend, he would have been embarrassed.

Wilson watched him move; watched the way he slipped into his clothes. He was leaner than Wilson, and just slightly taller, but in the dark light, he could almost look like a younger version of himself, and he scoffed, shaking his head. House might know about Wilson, but at least Wilson knew about House.

"You're going to tell him everything we did, aren't you." It wasn't a question.

Jimmy didn't say anything.

Wilson chuckled to himself, and got out of the bed. Jimmy smiled at him, then slid out of the bedroom, probably accustomed to leaving without saying goodbye; he was just a hooker, after all.

Maybe it had started out as an apology, but Wilson knew House. It had ended up as an investigation; the first girl came back untouched, and that wasn't what House had expected. It became a puzzle, and that's all this was. Instead of being annoyed like he was sure he was supposed to feel, he smiled and went into the bathroom to start the shower.

Showered and free of any sort of post-coital scents, he'd gone to the hotel and knocked on the door. It was past midnight, but he knew House would still be awake. It wasn't long until the door opened and House stood on the other end, wearing a white fluffy robe. It seemed House, in his newfound singledom, decided to get dressed as little as he possibly could. He nodded at Wilson and turned around, leaving the door open, and Wilson followed him, watching the way he dipped when he walked.

"Go home," House ordered; he wasn't rough or acidic, just . . . as if he were giving permission.

Wilson frowned; he'd barely walked in and if House didn't want him here, why had he let him in? He needed to talk to House; that was why he'd shown up, so . . .

"Right-o," he heard Jimmy say, and he got off the couch, still in sweats and a thin tee. He met Wilson's eyes and he blinked few times, then looked away. He looked guilty, if Wilson were to be honest.

Wilson smiled and nodded at him as he passed, and waited until he heard the door shut to say; "He told you what happened, then?"

House scratched at his eyebrow, turned so that Wilson could really only see his profile, then picked at his bowl of money. "Yeah," he admitted finally.

Wilson waited for him to say something else, but realized that he wasn't going to, so he stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and ambled closer to House. House may have figured out a puzzle, but Wilson had figured out his own, too. And House must've known, otherwise he wouldn't be refusing to look at him.

"Why the hookers, House? Did you . . . what, want me to get laid?" He had his suspicions, but he wanted House to say something; wanted to know.

"I sent you a hot blonde hooker who was just dumped, and you didn't sleep with her. It's an aberration. I had to . . . figure it out." He shifted his weight onto his other foot, and Wilson half-smiled; the first one had been an apology.

As was custom, Wilson didn't mention it; House wouldn't have admitted to it, anyway.

"So you sent another, and then you sent . . . What, one who looked like you? Did you tell her what to talk about?" House nodded, and glanced at Wilson; saw that he'd walked closer, then limped further away. "And then a male hooker." House didn't say anything; just nodded again, now facing the window so all Wilson could see was his back. "What were you expecting?" he asked, walking closer still. House glanced over his shoulder at him, then turned away again. "House," he insisted.

House finally turned around and stared him down, as if daring him to say something; daring him to mock him. "At worst you'd sputter and send him away. At best, you'd suck his dick."

"There was a mutual exchange of sucking," Wilson stated, smiling softly.

He lifted his chin and visibly clenched his jaw. They were only two feet apart, and House was tense; as if he wanted to bolt and put as much distance between them as possible. Wilson understood; this conversation wasn't easy for him, either. "He told you what I called him." He stood straighter and clenched his jaw again; despite the determined posture, his eyes shone and his bottom lip trembled so slightly Wilson might not have noticed in another situation.

Wilson nodded. "He did." House squeezed his eyes shut and Wilson stepped forward; put his hand on House's shoulder; squeezed comfortingly. His eyes opened and he visibly swallowed and blinked rapidly. "He did, and I still came here."

House's expression softened and one side of his mouth curved for a second, but he didn't quite smile.

"You like men," House accused, a victorious gleam in his eyes.

Wilson grinned. "So do you."

House lurched forward and Wilson would've flinched, except he knew why he had moved and felt his somewhat-chapped lips pressed against his own. House's long fingers cradled his jaw as his tongue sneaked out; licked Wilson's mouth open slightly and, despite himself, Wilson did push a little into the kiss; allow their tongues to touch briefly. He wanted to kiss him; wanted to ravish his mouth and clutch onto him, tumble into bed and . . . Well, perhaps it was too soon for another round of anything, but . . .

But this wasn't about what he wanted.

With a sigh, he pushed House away from him; not roughly, just enough to unlock their mouths, and it wasn't easy. It wrenched his heart from his chest and if that hurt him, he couldn't even imagine what it must've done to House. House pulled away further than Wilson had pushed him and started limping away.

Wilson grabbed at his shoulder and House flinched like he was expecting an attack, but Wilson didn't want to think about why that had been his first instinct. "Cuddy just dumped you," he explained and House furrowed his brows before pulling his arm free. "She just dumped you."

House's eyes widened and his mouth opened like he was going to say something, but he didn't.

"You're hurting; rebounding, even. Right now is-it wouldn't be right," he admitted and it hurt saying that, but he had to; heneeded to hear it. House nodded and looked at the floor "So . . . I don't know; do what you need to, House. Sleep with hookers, jump off balconies . . ." House met his eyes again, but only briefly, although there was a small smile on his face. ". . . try not to go bankrupt," he added seriously, when he eyed the bowl of money.

"I've been saving up for years, Wilson. This is why I have you to pay for everything."

Wilson chuckled lightly, then ducked his head to meet House's eyes again. They looked at each other, and Wilson held his scruffy jaw; brushed the back of his hand against the scratchy beard. "When you're done doing this-finish it. Just . . . Just finish whatever it is you need to do, and . . ." His voice faltered; holding House's jaw felt so right, and he wanted to just push forward and plunder his mouth . . . But he knew he was right. House needed to do this; needed to do whatever it was he was doing, and he couldn't do that and be with Wilson at the same time.

Getting together so soon after Cuddy leaving him would be a mistake, and he wasn't going to ruin this.

"I'll wait for you," Wilson promised after a small silence, and House nodded. Wilson removed his hand and swallowed the lump in his throat; his eyes stung, but he felt rather good about this despite that.

House nodded again, and cleared his throat. "Okay," he said, sounding a lot surer about himself than he looked.

"So, until then . . ." Wilson leaned forward and kissed the side of House's mouth; the prickle of his beard was a new experience, but he was looking forward to it becoming a part of his life, whenever that was.

House smiled at him, then looked away, but Wilson had a feeling it was just to hide the fact that he was grinning.

Wilson turned on his heel and was half out the door when he stopped; he couldn't leave without saying goodbye; he wasn't Jimmy. He wasn't some random hooker. He turned and saw that House was staring at him. "Was the cherry sucker your idea?" he asked.

"Of course."

Wilson nodded. "I figured. I'll see you later?"

"See ya," House said with a wave.

Wilson grinned and felt a weight disappear off his shoulders; a brightness fill his chest, which didn't make sense as one shouldn't be able to feel brightness, but he didn't care. "Goodnight," he said, then left the hotel, because it would be too easy to just never leave if he didn't do it now.

He ambled down the hallway to the elevator, smiling as the light, airy feeling overtook him. They weren't together now, but it was inevitable. Next week, next month; hell, even next year, eventually House would be ready, and Wilson would be there.

But until then, he could wait.