Notes: If you haven't seen the episode Three Stories
a few lines of the story might confuse you, but other than that you're
good. Great thanks go out to my betas: Clannadlvr, Moonlash, and
Corinna, all of whom made some excellent suggestions. Remaining
mistakes are mine alone.
"You owe me twenty bucks," Wilson said. There was an
unaccustomed tension about his shoulders, and he was staring out
House's office window at the rain, touching the glass like he was
thinking of putting his fist through it.
House took him out and paid his debt in beer. When that didn't seem to
be having any effect he started in on the harder stuff. Once he thought
Wilson was drunk enough not to dodge the question, he put both hands on
the table, leaned in and said in what he thought of as his sensitive
voice, "So. Two in one day, huh?"
The first time House had seen a patient thank Wilson for a terminal
diagnosis he'd been convinced it was a fluke. He had to sit in as a
"consulting physician" multiple times before he believed Wilson's
assurances that it happened about half the time. House had expected it
to be mostly the women, since Wilson always knew how to charm women
with his earnest, boy's smile and his big brown eyes, but,
surprisingly, the men were more likely to say it. He supposed men
weren't used to other men addressing them with that kind of compassion.
"Well, three actually," Wilson explained almost angrily, "the pancreas
and the lymphoma said thank you, but the eight year old with leukemia
and her mother were crying too hard to say anything." Wilson ran his
hand through his hair and then brought it back down to the table in a
wide shaky arc that tipped over one of the empty pint glasses. He
fumbled for it, but it rolled out of his reach and shattered against
"Fuck!" he shouted loudly enough to attract a few looks, and buried his
face in his hands.
The last one explained Wilson's agitation. Generally the guy kept it
together amazingly well for someone whose professional lexicon mostly
consisted of phrases like "five percent survival rate" and "we can make
you comfortable," but once in awhile he got a little weepy over the
"Come on," House said. "Let's go before those women eyeing you in the
corner think asking if you want to talk about it makes a good pick up
line." He threw a hundred down on their table and took Wilson's elbow
to keep him from weaving too much as they stumbled out.
They got drenched on the way to the parking lot, pea-sized raindrops
pelting against them like they were being thrown by an angry god. House
told Wilson he was too drunk to drive, and then that he was far too
drunk to know what he was doing when, back at his place, Wilson leaned
in and kissed him on the couch.
"This is a bad idea," House said after the second kiss, but it was too
hard to stop when Wilson was pressing against him with so much need.
Everyone knew House never denied Wilson anything. All he could do was
gasp out his insincere objections between licks and bites and those
sweet, rainwater kisses.
Wilson finally shut him up by going down on him. He sucked House's cock
with an intense look of concentration on his face. House kept his eyes
wide open and watched for as long as he could before throwing his head
back and coming like crazy down Wilson's throat, shouting his ecstasy
at the ceiling.
The next morning it was hard to tell which was the greater cause of
Wilson's obvious misery—his hangover or what had happened. He beat a
hasty retreat after a few mumbled apologies, and House wasn't sure
whether to be relieved or to cry.
He got in the shower and glared at his morning erection. "I hope you're
happy," he told his dick. "You just lost me my only friend." But his
penis refused to be abashed and stayed hard until House gave in and
jerked off to the memories, sorry that his fist was tighter than
Wilson's mouth, but nowhere near as hot or as desperate.
It was a testament to how thoroughly sex interferes with higher brain
function that it took two days before it occurred to him that Wilson
had clearly done this before. No one gave a blowjob that spectacular on
their first try. With a sick feeling House wondered who the others
were, and had Wilson kissed them like that afterwards? Had they wrapped
their arms around him while he crushed his face to theirs and whispered
"thank you" like he was the one who'd been given a
gift? House simultaneously really did and really did not want
On the third day he had to sneak into the bathroom at work to jerk off
like he was still in high school. The memories were getting more
intense with time instead of less, but now they carried a feeling of
hopeless dread as well as arousal. Wilson had been noticeably absent
since slinking off that morning, and House hated to think that "Oh god,
Greg," might be the last words his best friend ever willingly said to
him. He never would have believed before this that an impromptu blowjob
could make him unhappy.
House tried to block out the fear and just focus on the feeling of his
hand working his cock. He focused on his memories of the way Wilson's
hands had pushed up under his shirt, smooth and sure, and the way
Wilson's mouth had given him a rush like a rollercoaster and burnt like
a brand. He thought about Wilson's moist, boozy breath on his cheek and
Wilson's tongue in his mouth and came in a series of hot spurts,
turning his head into his shoulder to muffle his ragged breathing.
Afterwards House sat on the toilet and rested his head on his cane,
alone with the rock in his stomach.
House stayed away from his office the rest of the day. The place felt
too empty when he knew there was no chance of Wilson dropping by, but
by nine p.m. he'd gotten himself chased out of the cardiology lounge
and the obstetrics lounge and every other lounge on the opposite side
of the hospital from oncology. He returned to his office and dropped
down into the armchair with a sigh.
He briefly considered going home, but the memories were stronger there.
He'd look at the couch and think, "This is where it happened." The
sound of the leather creaking beneath him and the hot, dirty sucking
noises as he pumped in and out of Wilson's mouth would come back to him
in vivid detail. He'd remember the way Wilson's moans of encouragement
had vibrated along his dick and all the way up his spine, making him
writhe with pleasure.
House had finished reliving the event from start to finish for the
hundredth time, and was on to the part where he wondered how many other
people Wilson had done that to, and whether there was enough in his
savings account to have them all killed, or if he'd have to focus on
the ones who'd had it more than once, when the mouth in question walked
Wilson was impeccably dressed, as usual, and if their encounter was
causing him anywhere near the level of turmoil it'd been causing House,
he hid it well. "Hi," he said, with a little shrug of his shoulders,
and House knew instinctively that that was how Wilson greeted his wives
after he'd "worked late" for the tenth night in a row, or gotten a page
and run out on yet another important dinner. Somehow, with that one
syllable, he managed to convey an air of resourceful penitence, as if
he were promising to do better next time if the listener would only go
easy on him.
House was in no mood to be merciful. Why ignore a two-ton pink elephant
when shouting and poking at it were so much more fun? "There you are. I
was wondering when you'd stop avoiding me."
That wiped the serenity right off Wilson's face. "I haven't been
avoiding you," he said indignantly. "You've been avoiding me. I came by
your office three times today, and you weren't here."
"That has nothing to do with you. Cuddy's on the warpath because I
fudged a little to get that kid with Hep B into Mark Miller's clinical
trial. Now I've destroyed their data because her name doesn't begin
with 'R,' or whatever. I had to go on the lam until she calmed down."
It was a lame lie. Actually, it was true, but all Cuddy would do was
yell and maybe slap his wrist, and Wilson knew that. "You're the one
who skipped lunch yesterday and the day before."
"Look, it's not important who was avoiding who," Wilson said. "We
"I don't see how there's anything to talk about. It was a mistake, and
we both regret it, and it'll never happen again. So on and so forth,
yadda yadda." House waved a hand dismissively as if the whole thing
were nothing more than a minor misunderstanding.
Wilson gave him a skeptical sideways look. "So, if we just close our
eyes, click our heels and pretend really hard it never happened then
everything can go back to normal. Is that what you think?"
"I don't see why not. You're a married man. Repression and denial are
your stock in trade, and I have some expertise in those areas myself."
"I keep failing at marriage, actually. And besides, I don't regret it,
and I do want it to happen again."
House's stomach lurched at that revelation. He could imagine it
happening again right then and there. Wilson could pin his hips to the
chair, swallow him down and make him come in under a minute if he
wanted to. House wouldn't have the strength to stop him, not even if
every last employee of Princeton Plainsboro were standing outside the
glass doors watching them. He pushed up out of the chair and walked to
the other side of his desk, trying to regain some composure.
"You're awfully cavalier about adultery, aren't you?"
"Julie left me two weeks ago. I just haven't been able to face telling
This news hit even harder. Two weeks, and House hadn't known something
was wrong until that night in his office, and then he'd blindly
accepted the red herring of the patients. It terrified him that Wilson
could lie that well. It scared him even more that a part of him didn't
care. A part of him was thrilled and hopeful and completely heedless of
just how dangerous Wilson was. He ruthlessly crushed that part down,
took a shallow breath and said, "But I don't want it to happen again. I
got carried away in the moment, but I'm not interested in you that way.
I'm a breast man, you know, and yours are pretty pathetic."
Wilson placed his hands on his hips and looked deliberately down at
House's crotch. "That'd be a lot easier to believe if there weren't a
four-man tent in your pants while you were saying it, House."
House tugged his t-shirt down before he could stop himself and Wilson
laughed. "Or is that just a really big bottle of Vicodin in your
"A man can't fantasize about Angelina Jolie alone in his office
anymore?" He was having trouble hitting his usual note of flippancy,
and he knew the blush was completely ruining the effect. Wilson only
glared at him in annoyed disbelief.
House sighed. "Let's not make this bigger than it has to be. It was no
big deal. I'm already over it."
"Yeah." Wilson nodded and gave that sarcastic smile House knew so well.
"I'm sure your first sexual encounter in two years was a real non-event
"That's right. I'm not the panty peeler that you are," House bit out,
finally wholly, liberatingly furious. "Or should I say 'boxer peeler?'
Exactly how many—"
"House." Wilson cut him off, a real note of warning in his voice. His
head was tucked down now like he was squaring off for a fight. "Don't
change the subject. This is about you and me."
"So, what? You think you get some kind of bonus points for sucking
lonely old cripple cock? If that's what you're into I'm sure it can't
be too hard to find in a hospital.
I'd be happy to
put the word out on your consummate skill, if you need the help. But
somehow, I doubt you do."
Wilson jutted his chin out and met House's eyes defiantly. "Thanks, but
I'm sick of surrogates."
The reason Wilson was so good at arguing with House was because he
could take the bait and run with it like that, run circles around him
until the room was spinning and he had to brace his free hand on the
desk for support. Wilson wanted him and
That was a heady thought, and yet . . .
"It would be a complete disaster. We'd wind up hating each other," he
said softly, the truth shocked out of him. "Fine. I'll admit that I'm
attracted to you, but that doesn't make it right. The penis isn't an
organ known for its good sense."
"But at least it knows what it wants."
"I know what I want," House said, still quiet and even. "I want us to
Wilson searched House's eyes for a few seconds and then nodded a
little. "We will. Let me know when you're ready for more. I'll be
House watched Wilson turn and walk out the door. He wiped his sweaty
palms on his pants, hearing the familiar rattle in his pocket. He
swallowed a pill as he sank down into his desk chair; feeling like what
he really needed was some digitalis to slow his racing heart.
Wilson shouldn't hold his breath. House took risks all the time but not
on people. Not on a person who could laugh and split a bag of chips
with you over lunch while his wife was at home loading their wedding
albums and half their dishes and all of her fifty-eight pairs of shoes
into a U-haul.
A friendship wasn't worth a few orgasms. He'd meant what he said. But
Wilson said he'd be waiting. And everyone who really knew House knew
that he never denied Wilson anything.