Archive of Our Own

James Wilson was twenty-six the first time he saw Gregory House.

At that point, he and Sam had been separated for months pending the hearing, had no shared assets or children, and their mutual friends had already chosen sides. The last time they had spoken face to face was the morning he left for a conference in New Orleans, where he was served divorce papers, arrested for vandalism and assault, then bailed out by his parents a day later, who told him off for getting married so young in the first place, and to a Catholic girl, no less. A humiliating weekend, overall, and the start of a brutal year he needed to put behind him.

He was barely surviving his residency, so he agreed to all of Sam’s terms just to get it over with, then spent weeks being viciously heartbroken, drinking himself to sleep, and fucking his way through Philadelphia. It turned out that that brief period of spiralling was what he needed to start thinking more clearly. He realized that while he probably couldn’t get out of paying alimony, he couldn’t let himself be saddled with all the debt she racked up in his name.

So he hired a friend of a family friend, fresh out of law school and dirt cheap. Sam, who came from money and wanted to give one last fuck-you to the humble life she had to endure in their marriage, got an actual attorney who went to Yale and spoke six languages. Wilson had looked him up.

Two nights before the hearing, Wilson actually met the aforementioned attorney. He was leaning against Wilson's beat-up car in the hospital parking garage after he came out of a late shift, a cigarette dangling from his fingers, wearing torn jeans and a faded hoodie. Wilson almost didn’t recognize him—the photos of his firm have him in a suit with his hair neatly combed, making him appear a lot older than he actually was. Looking at him now, he was probably only in his thirties. The only identifying feature Wilson could make out were the shocking blue eyes, nearly glowing in the dark.

“James Wilson? Greg House,” he said, holding a hand out to shake. “‘House’ is fine. If you call me Mr. House, I’ll throw up.”

“I know who you are,” Wilson said cautiously, shaking it quickly before letting go. “Wilson is fine, too.”

House smirked at him. “Good, then you know why I’m here.”

“Are you supposed to be talking to me?” Wilson asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be going through my lawyer?”

“That guy is not a lawyer, and I’m not going to debase myself by putting our correspondence through him,” House said dismissively, perching on the hood of Wilson's car. “I can get Sam to agree to evenly split the debt accumulated during your marriage, but that’s the best I can do for you.”

Wilson frowned, shoulders going tight. “No, it’s her debt, not mine. She never worked a single day while we were actually married, but I had two jobs.”

“And that’s why she wants you to take it on, idiot. She doesn’t have the money to pay it off. You do.”

“Her parents—”

“Her parents cut her off after you got engaged,” House interrupted, getting back on his feet and poking Wilson in the middle of his chest. “She didn’t tell you because she knew it would hurt your feelings, so she made up some shit about wanting to be independent. Don’t dwell on how romantic that was, though, because look how that turned out. The only thing her parents have done for her since is retain me, and then she’s back on the prowl to look for another poor sap to suck dry.”

Wilson scrubbed a hand over his face, instantly too tired to deal with this. “I know hiring you costs more than those credit card bills. God, she’s just doing this to piss me off, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you put a ring on a gold-digger, without any gold,” House said with a shrug. “Take this as an expensive lesson learned.”

Wilson glared at him, feeling a weird, residual sense of defensiveness for his ex. Hopefully that would pass, and quickly. “Are you allowed to talk about your clients like that?”

“Why? Are you gonna tell her what I said?” House laughed, turning his head to blow smoke downwind. “Just take the deal, Wilson. Go halfsies, and she’s out of your life forever.”

Wilson gripped the strap of his book bag with both hands. “Why are you even helping me?”

“Because you’re cute,” House said, patting him on the shoulder. “See you in court!”

—

James Wilson was thirty-two the second time he saw Gregory House.

He still had fifteen minutes until his scheduled appearance. He had already gotten a shitty cup of coffee across the street, paced back and forth in the hallway, and sat in his car and called his mother, and was therefore running out of time-killers since he arrived an hour early from anxiety.

It wasn’t so much the divorce itself that was giving him grief—it wasn't his first rodeo—but seeing his second soon-to-be ex-wife. Bonnie was a good woman, but he’d screwed up with her, and he hated seeing her upset. Maybe they should've just stayed friends. Could they still be friends again after the dust settled? If he managed to reconcile with Sam enough that they could send each other the occasional birthday and holiday card, maybe hope wasn’t entirely lost.

Then House appeared after Wilson had gone to the courthouse bathroom a fourth time to ponder his ever-darkening future, popping up in the mirror behind him while he washed his hands.

“You again?” Wilson asked, glancing at him warily. House was starting to look a little older, with a handsome touch of grey at his temples and some deeper laugh lines than Wilson remembered. His shirt perfectly matched his eyes, almost distracting from the cane he now walked with. “There’s no way you’re here for my hearing, right? There’s absolutely no way.”

“Well, I’m probably not supposed to tell you this, but we’re pals off the clock, right?” House winked, taking his position at the urinals. “When Bonnie decided to leave you, she reached out to Sam for a little ex-wife commiseration party. My business card may have been passed along—I guess I did something right the first time.”

“Of course,” Wilson said flatly. He politely turned away, knowing he should leave, but his manners prevented him from walking out mid-conversation. “I’m glad my divorces are going well for you.”

“Hey, it’s not like your life completely sucks. You’re a real, board-certified oncologist now. Head of the department, I heard,” House said, zipping up and walking over to join him at the sinks. “I almost went into medicine, you know. Maybe I missed my calling.”

Wilson nodded, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. “It’s probably the only other job that has hours as long as lawyers.”

“Ah, that wretched work-life balance for us distinguished professionals,” House mused, then dropped his voice to a whisper. “Is that why you cheated? Didn’t see your wife enough, had to get a little somethin’ on the side at the hospital?”

“No,” Wilson said emphatically, face going hot. Technically, he was telling the truth, because he met Beth at a dog park. Anyway, Bonnie already rehomed the dog.

House looked at him for a long moment, and Wilson wilted a little under the silent assessment. “You cheated on the first one, too, didn’t you? She suspected it, she just didn’t have any proof.”

“I don’t think I should be answering these questions without my lawyer,” Wilson muttered. “And whatever transpired in my previous marriage isn't on trial here.”

“I do this for a living, Wilson. I’ve seen it all, the worst of the worst. Why do you think I’m never getting married?” House says, reaching over him and grabbing some paper towel to dry his hands with. “Anyway, it’s not like it’s a secret. Bonnie has all your suspicious bank statements and cell phone records. It’s just a good thing you didn’t have an infidelity clause in your prenup.”

“We didn’t have a prenup at all,” Wilson reminded him sourly.

“And that was your first mistake. Or, I guess, her’s,” House said. “You could’ve asked me to draft you one, at least.”

“I probably can’t afford you. I still have student loans, and I’m about to have two alimony payments.”

House nudged him with his elbow. “I’ll give you a discount for the next one.”

Wilson hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

“Good money in family law, I suppose?” he asked dully, because he still had time to waste, and this was marginally more entertaining than wearing a groove into the floor outside the courtroom.

“Not really,” House said. “There’s plenty to do, but all of it’s draining, and it gets to the point of not being worth it pretty damn quick. You meet a lot of assholes who think they deserve a lot more than they do. It’s not for the soft-hearted. I mostly do criminal cases these days because I prefer the challenge, and it pays way better.”

Wilson folded his arms over his chest. “Why bother practicing family law at all, if you’re only concerned about money? Switch to tax law or something.”

“You make me sound so cruel,” House said, clutching his invisible pearls. “Maybe I have a tragic backstory that led me to pursue something where I could help little kids in abusive households get permanently removed from their shitty dads’ custody. Or something like that.”

It sounded a little too specific to be a joke. Wilson frowned. “Then why not social work?”

House arched an eyebrow at him. “I’m not very social.”

Fair enough. Wilson took that answer for what it was, a clear end to that conversation, but he couldn’t stop himself from starting a new one. He glanced down at House’s cane again. “So, I don’t mean to pry—”

“You’re a doctor, I get it,” he said, looking away, awkwardly shifting his weight a little. “It was an infarction. Happened last year. They took too long to figure out what was wrong, so I was put into a medically induced coma and they took the muscle out entirely. Left me with a pretty gnarly scar. No more short-shorts for me.”

“God. I’m so sorry,” Wilson murmured. He felt a little lost, and comforting his ex wife’s attorney might’ve been too much, too inappropriate. But had House ever conducted himself appropriately with him?

House shrugged. “I’m in constant pain, I’ll never run again, and my girlfriend dumped me, but at least I still have my leg.”

Wilson winced. “Do you have a PT? Assuming you’re local, I could refer you to some great ones—”

“Don’t worry about me, Jimmy,” House said tiredly, like he’d heard it all before. “Just stop getting married, okay?”

—

James Wilson was thirty-nine the third time he saw Gregory House.

He felt like he was watching it in slow motion: House making his way into the courtroom, wearing a fetching pair of reading glasses, ready to dissect yet another one of Wilson's failed marriages. Was this even legal? How many times could he humiliate himself in front of the same guy?

The hearing went about as smoothly as the others. It was novel being on the other side of things, for once, on the issue of marital infidelity. It turned out that being cheated on meant you could keep a lot more of your stuff, so while Julie got the apartment, Wilson got to keep their new car, which was fine by him. He liked that car. Apparently, more than his relationship.

Everything else wrapped up quickly with little disagreement, there was some polite handshaking, and then it was over. His third divorce in less than fifteen years, and he wasn't even forty yet.

He felt House’s eyes on him in the parking lot as he got into his car, then drove directly to a pub down the street to get plastered on a Tuesday afternoon.

He also should have known he wasn’t getting away that easily.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” House said, twenty minutes and two beers later, sliding onto the barstool beside him.

“House, come on,” Wilson bristled, shaking his head, hand clenched around his bottle. “I don’t think we should be… fraternizing.”

“Why not? The proceedings are over. My legal responsibility to your third ex-wife has ended.” He motioned to the bartender for a beer. “Unless you've got a fourth Mrs. Wilson already coming down the pipeline?”

Wilson rested a hand over his eyes, sighing. “I’m done. I should’ve listened to you. I’m never getting married again.”

“About time,” House snorted. “You have shitty taste in women. L’Chaim.” He held up his drink, and Wilson reluctantly clinked the necks of their bottles together.

Wilson supposed it should be uncomfortable sitting with House, given the circumstances, yet he couldn’t find a good, tenable reason to feel any ill will towards him. He may have represented all of his exes in court, but there hadn’t been anything underhanded or malicious about it. Despite some vulnerable moments where Wilson's dirty laundry had been aired, things had been civil. Easy, even.

Still, he’d heard from his own lawyers through the years how impossible it was to get ahold of House directly, let alone bargain with him. Most calls, emails, and faxes went through his team of overworked legal assistants and articling students. He barely met with clients, either, and would only finally introduce himself the day of their hearing. Wilson had also read that House was vicious in court, sharp-tongued and calculating, that he could argue anyone into submission, that he could read witnesses like a book the second they walked into the room and strip them bare on the stand. His trials often ended with someone in tears, or with him being threatened with contempt.

Wilson almost wished he got to see that side of him. Maybe he would have, if his wives had been a little more vengeful, or if he had asked for more from them. It didn’t seriously occur to him that House had gone easy on him, but he had no hard evidence, either way.

“You got any interesting criminal cases going on?” Wilson finally asked, settling in and accepting his fate for the evening.

“Jimmy! It would be a breach of confidentiality to tell you about them. I could be disbarred!” House says in a hushed voice. “So everything I’m about to say is hypothetical.”

As Wilson had feared, it was alarmingly easy to talk to him. Even enjoyable, if he was pressed to say so. House was a clever and captivating storyteller, dry and cutting when he needed to be, which surely translated well in court. It was an abrasive sort of charm, but still charming, nonetheless. And he was deeply intelligent—his ability to recall decades-old cases and cite laws down to the most minor details was staggering, and Wilson had to make an active effort to look less impressed than he was. Regardless, he found himself agreeing that House had missed his calling with medicine several times, though he complained that he was too old and lazy to start med school now.

Wilson checked his watch and realized with a start that two hours had passed, engrossed in candid conversation, their knees knocking against each other’s under the table. He just kept demanding more information about House, and felt it within his right to do so, because House knew more about him than his own friends and families did. He knew the intimate details about Wilson's finances and how much sex he and his wives were or weren’t having, but Wilson knew nearly nothing about him in return.

They went over their shared interest in music, classic cars, and sports. House tried to sell him on some cheesy, medically-inaccurate hospital soap he watched when he couldn’t sleep, and Wilson argued that angsty telenovelas were way better for that. It was odd to think they could’ve been doing this for years. Maybe House would’ve been his divorce attorney instead, and then Wilson just might’ve gotten to keep those nice ceramic dishes he and Julie picked up in Mexico.

“Do a shot with me,” he said suddenly.

“How many drinks have you had?” House asked with narrowed eyes, but ordered their tequila anyway.

“I’m fine, I just want to feel it,” Wilson explained vaguely.

Their shots were poured and they toasted to no more wives! before downing them. Wilson coughed, relishing in the burn, the way it warmed him through and woke him up. House patted him on the back and Wilson swayed towards him, even when he took his hand away.

“Are you still staying at that hotel?” House asked, and Wilson nodded.

“I’ll have to go apartment-hunting soon. I only have two weeks left there,” he murmured. “I don’t need a ton of space, I just need to be near the hospital and a decent grocery store. Maybe I’ll see if Bonnie can get me in anywhere on short notice.”

House tipped his head in thought. “She probably could, she’s not half bad. You know, she sold me my new condo last year. If you hadn’t cheated on her, she wouldn’t have divorced you and gone for her real estate license, so I guess I can thank you for that.”

“Happy to help,” Wilson replied grimly, wondering distantly if House was still in touch with Sam, too. What would they talk about? Did they even have anything in common? He could imagine Julie sending him an edible arrangement. She liked doing that sort of thing, without caring if the recipient even liked them, or had any allergies.  

“Do you wanna come over and see it?” House asked.

“See what?” Wilson blinked at him. Maybe he missed something House had said before, too lost in thought about his exes, head swimming a little too much to keep up.

House turned to him, leaning in close, eyes sharp and clear. He had more stubble these days, and he had already shed his tie and glasses from court. Wilson wondered if he still wore ratty old band tees; they suited him much better.

“My condo, Jimmy. Come home with me,” House said, slowly and uncharacteristically direct, dropping all the lighthearted pretenses.

“Oh. Are you—um, you want me to… What are you, uh, what exactly are you asking? From me?” Wilson stammered, as eloquently as he could manage. He drank too fast and ate too little that day, and he was feeling it all at once.

“Based on your track record, you’re gonna be elbow deep in pussy and halfway engaged by tomorrow afternoon, and probably not even to the same woman, so I’m shooting my shot while I can,” House explained, eyes dropping to Wilson's mouth. “And if we hook up, I’ll have to recuse myself from representing any of your future wives. Conflict of interest.”  

“I don’t—” Wilson started, then stopped himself. “I’ve never—” he tried again. The words wouldn’t come, and it would be fruitless, anyway, because House was looking at him in a way he found he liked, that made him feel strange and warm and daring. House had known him for years, had seen him at some of the lowest points of his life, witnessed his sins laid bare in front of a court of law, and he still wanted him. It was insane. He was out of his mind.

“Call us a cab?” Wilson said, bravely holding his gaze.

“Quick lawyer math for you: I had two beers and one shot of tequila over the course of three hours. For my height and weight, I’ll be well under the legal limit. I’m good to drive,” House said, pulling a few bills from his wallet and throwing them onto the table. “We’ll take the bike.”

Wilson raised his eyebrows, surprises on top of surprises. “Bike?”

He sobered up quickly enough on the back of House’s motorcycle as they wove through traffic, darting between cars, driving into the setting sun. Soon, they turned off a busy street onto a quieter, tree-lined residential one, rolling to a stop outside a newly built, fashionable looking building, where each unit had massive windows and spacious balconies.

“I thought family law didn’t make much money,” Wilson said, nudging him.

“It doesn't. I got a senior partner offer at a criminal defence firm and stopped practicing family law before your second divorce,” House replied slyly. “I only took the last two divorce cases because it was you.”

“That is so fucked up,” Wilson breathed, cock throbbing in his pants.

House politely kept his hands to himself on their way up the elevator, which was good, because Wilson needed a minute to get his bearings. He hadn’t gotten drunk enough for that to be an excuse for why he ended up here, but the fact that he was here at all was something he’d have to reckon with eventually. It didn't hurt that House kept getting undeniably better-looking, a little grayer, a little scruffier, more intense as the years went on. Was that Wilson's type? Hell of a rebound, he thought.

He glanced over at House, who was leaning against the railing and openly watching him, his eyes reflecting curiosity and desire in equal measure.

“I can still call you a cab if you’re thinking of backing out,” he said.

Of all the things on Wilson’s mind, leaving wasn’t one of them. The decision came easier to him than the first time he was unfaithful, and every time after that. He turned to stand in front of House, getting in his face, cupping his groin with one hand. His dick stiffened in Wilson's palm as he squeezed it. “Gonna go out on a limb here and assume one of them said something about me that got you curious.”

House nodded, hazy eyed. “One or two of them may have mentioned something about you being spectacular in bed. I believe the words they used were ‘passionate’ and ‘thorough’.”

“And a fast learner,” Wilson promised as the elevator dinged and the doors slid open.

He had to give Bonnie credit where it was due; the unit was gorgeous, with sleek dark floors and walnut furnishings. He only had a moment to peer into the living room, noting the guitars, piano, and scattered papers littered amongst the lavish record collection and abundant bookshelves, before House pushed him up against the front door and slid a hand up his neck to cup his jaw.

“I’m going to kiss you,” House warned, the deep timbre of his voice making Wilson shiver under him.  

“You need permission?”

House smiled, handsome dimple on full display. “Of course. Lawyer, remember?”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “You have permission. Enthusiastically.”

Then House’s lips were on his, and it immediately became clear how different it was to kiss another man. Wilson was used to plush, yielding lips, running his hands through long, fragrant hair. Out of habit, he held House by the hips, finding them narrow and solid instead of soft and rounded. House kissed him deeply, slowly, his stubble rough against Wilson's cheeks and chin. He still tasted like cheap tequila, but it may as well have been ambrosia, the way Wilson wanted to drink it down. It was shameful how hard he got, and how little time it took, like he was a teenager again and his girlfriend had finally let him sneak a hand under her sweater, except House was not a girl, and he was two inches taller than Wilson, and he had a strong grip and was liberal with his teeth.

When he finally drew back, Wilson had to blink a few times to get his vision back.

“Bedroom’s at the end of the hall,” House said, panting a little. Wilson was relieved he wasn’t the only one. “I’ll be there in a minute. I just need to take something for the leg.”

He released Wilson and headed towards the kitchen—very modern, equally well-furnished, though it looked notably underused—but Wilson followed him, interest piqued enough to ignore his boner. “What are you taking?”

House glanced back at him over his shoulder. “Am I about to get lectured on pain management by someone who doesn’t even have access to my medical history?”

“Just curious,” Wilson mumbled, watching House open one of his cabinets.

He points out a large plastic bottle of over-the-counter acetaminophen, extra-strength. “That’s what I take most of the time,” he says, pushing it aside to reveal a smaller orange bottle of Vicodin, which he grabs. “This is for if I’m on my feet in court all day, or if I’m about to do something particularly strenuous,” he said, shaking out a single pill and holding it between his teeth. He winked, and Wilson tried not to react. While House turned away to grab a glass of water, Wilson capped the bottle and put it back in the cupboard, his hand knocking against a large glass jar hidden in the back.

“You have—you smoke weed?” Wilson said with a hint of surprise, poking through the assortment of blunt wrappers and rolling papers. He picked up a pipe and inspected it closely. “I mean, you’re the expert, but I’m pretty sure this is still illegal.”

“What are you, a cop?” House asked with a teasing tilt of his head. “It helps, and it’s easier for me to get than opioids. Unless you wanna start writing scrips for me. I do need a new primary care physician.”

Wilson carefully placed the pipe back and shut the cabinet. “I thought about this for my patients,” he admitted. “Cannabis could work for them. A lot of them are in pain. Some of them, we’re just trying to keep them comfortable until…” he trailed off somberly.

House clicked his tongue. “God. Way to bring the mood down, Jimmy,” he muttered, but Wilson just chuckled and leaned into his space, pressing him against the counter and tipping his head up for a kiss.

“I don’t want that Vicodin going to waste,” he said.

They finally made it to bed, shedding their clothes once they passed the threshold of House’s bedroom door, pulling them off each other between quick kisses and wandering hands. Wilson glanced at the scar on House’s thigh but didn’t let his eyes linger; it wasn’t pretty, but he saw worse on a weekly basis. House probably wouldn’t appreciate being told as such, so Wilson kept it to himself, instead opting to grab House around the neck and kiss him again.

It was thrilling, being pushed down onto the sheets of House’s spacious, unmade bed, where the pillows still smelled like him, musky and masculine and sharp. House switched a small lamp on, set his cane against the bedside table, and eased himself under the covers to join him. Wilson wasted no time rolling on top of him, buzzing from the feeling of House’s bare skin and lean muscle, the soft hairs covering his firm chest and legs. And he was hard, the unignorable heat of it pressed against Wilson's thigh.

Wilson shifted over enough for their erections to line up and he bit his bottom lip to hold back a moan, unhurriedly rolling his hips. House found his mouth again, licking into it and encouragingly running his fingers through Wilson's hair. Wilson swallowed down every noise House made, feeling his body flex under his own, giving Wilson the nerve to reach down between them and take House’s cock in hand. He supposed there shouldn’t be that much of a difference between one penis and another, but it still felt new enough to be exciting, a little longer than his own, a little more slender, more curved, with soft foreskin that he couldn’t stop playing with. House’s hips twitched as Wilson tugged at him from root to tip, exploratory touches while he mapped out the situation.

“So, just handies, then? Or, if there’s anything else…” House asked, the politeness of it almost making Wilson laugh. “I have to ask because, again—”

“Yeah, yeah, lawyer, I got it,” Wilson murmured, moving down and latching onto the side of House’s neck with his mouth, scraping with his teeth.

“I’m also trying not to scare you off,” House said, trapping him in the delicious crush of his arms. “In my experience, straight guys spook easily.”

“Do I seem spooked to you?” Wilson snorted, giving House’s nipple a hard pinch, just to hear him hiss. “Everything. I want to do everything.”

“You sure? You know what ‘everything’ means?”

“I know that I want to fuck you,” Wilson said, sitting up enough to look him in the eyes. “I figure we can start with the basics and work our way up to pissing on each other and mutual fisting.”

House regards him, impressed. “Now I see why everyone’s just clamouring to marry you. Maybe I will get in line, after all.”

Wilson swooped down to shut him up with a kiss, which worked well, even while House was simultaneously digging around in his bedside drawer one-handed and without looking. It didn’t take him long to locate lube and condoms, tossing them onto the bed.

“Have you done this before?” House asked as Wilson sat up between his spread thighs, his sore leg stretched out on a pillow.

Wilson drizzled the lube out, warming it between his fingers. “Well, I am an oncologist. Sometimes, there’s cancer up there. Should I put on some gloves? We could do a little roleplay.”

House huffed a laugh. “I’m still a couple years out from needing a screening, but while you’re here…”

“Sure, I’ll invoice you later,” Wilson said, pushing a slick index finger into him, thinking about how long it had been since he’s had fun like this during sex. Since he’d been able to joke around, laugh, and tease. Years, surely. It would always start that way in new relationships, especially during the intoxicating honeymoon phase where they couldn’t keep their hands off each other, but there would inevitably hit a point where that spark fizzled out, and sex became as formulaic as doing laundry; kiss her until she’s wet, eat her out, fuck her in one of the three positions she likes, then cuddle her to sleep. Sometimes he’d get half a blowjob, if she was in the mood. There was very little talking during, a satisfied thanks, honey, I love you at the end, and she’d be out like a light. It was all very straightforward and domestic. Wilson just assumed that’s how it would be for the rest of his life, until he died.

It’d be nothing like having a man spread out under him, hard and writhing under his touch, looking at him like he just handed him a winning lottery ticket. “Oh, I knew this was a good idea. I’m only fucking doctors from now on.”

“How many doctors do you know?” Wilson asked, an unbidden twinge of jealousy creeping into his words. watching House’s cock twitch with each thrust of his finger.

“Are you kidding? Doctors were a third of my old firm’s clients. You guys love cheating and getting divorced. I might still have some phone numbers, there was one really buff urologist from Brazil who—” he cut off with a groan as Wilson worked a second finger into him, then dropped his head back onto the pillows.

“No, House, keep going. Definitely tell me more about this buff Brazilian urologist. I’d love to hear it,” Wilson said, angling his fingers and pressing in deep. House arched up off the bed, hands fisted in the sheets. There was a tempting wet patch on his stomach where his dick lay, flushed dark and steadily leaking.

“I’m good, actually,” he said, strained.

“You sure?”

“Positive. Don’t even remember his name.”

Wilson grinned, leaning down. “What’s mine?”

House narrowed his eyes at him. “James… Evan…” he stopped, shuddering as Wilson licked up the length of his cock.

“Wilson?” House squeaked, when Wilson sucked the head into his mouth. He didn’t know House’s voice could go that high, nor did he expect that that’s how dick would taste. He was learning all sorts of new things. Naturally, it was mostly skin, and precome was slightly bitter. Wilson tried to keep his teeth out of the way and swirled his tongue, coaxing a little more out, keeping House stuffed full with his fingers.

“While I’m so glad you’re—ah—not too closeted for that,” House said haltingly, squirming under him. “If you want me to join you for the main event, you’re gonna have to get a move on.”

Wilson sat back up, letting House’s cock fall wetly out of his mouth. “You could say please.”

“I don’t beg, Jimmy,” House said, giving him a tired look. “Are you gonna fuck me or not?”

Wilson knew a challenge when he heard one.

There was another novel realization—feeling competitive during sex. Was this how it was when your partner wasn’t a passive, docile thing?

He tore the condom wrapper open and rolled it on, almost surprised at how hard he still was. He could feel House watching him pour out a little more lube, stroke himself a few times, then brace himself over House’s body.

“This okay?” Wilson asked, positioning himself with one hand on the bed, the other around his cock, bumping up against House’s hole. After a second, he grabbed another pillow and shoved it under House’s hips.

“You sure are taking your sweet time,” House muttered. “What if I have plans later?”

“Cancel them,” Wilson murmured, finally pushing into him, feeding him his cock inch by inch, the dizzying heat of it stealing the air from his lungs.

House moaned, loud and brazen, and Wilson wondered how thick the walls were, or if his neighbours just hated him. “Yeah, I can—I can cancel,” he said, grabbing Wilson's shoulders and holding on for dear life. “Wasn’t anything important.”

“Might just keep you here, then,” Wilson said. He didn’t miss the way House’s entire body reacted to that, twitching deep inside, his hands gripping Wilson's arms. When he had finally sunken all the way into him, Wilson slumped forward, panting.

“How does it feel?” House asked. “Different?”

“Yeah,” Wilson said, fighting to draw in deep, steady breaths. “Tighter.”

“Oh, you flatterer,” House chuckled, which only made him tighten up more. Wilson groaned, grabbing a handful of House’s hair in warning, which only made him clench up again.

Wilson tested out rolling his hips, starting a lazy grind that made his head feel foggy from all the sensations of it, of a strong, solid body under him and a slick, inviting warmth around his cock. House smelled like musk and sweat and it was nothing short of mouthwatering, and Wilson gulped it all down with his nose shoved into House’s neck.

“You don’t have to go so easy on me,” he said, his voice dropping low. He hitched his left leg up and over Wilson's hip. “I’ve done this before, you know. I can handle it. I’ve had bigger and meaner.”

Wilson drew back and looked him in the face, at his pink cheeks and blown pupils, ignoring the obvious bait. “Thought you didn’t beg.”

“This isn’t begging,” House said. “I’m simply informing.”

“Inform me nicely, then,” Wilson told him. “Or I could just do this all night, and after I come, I’ll stay stuffed up inside you until I’m hard again, and then keep going.”

Truthfully, he had no idea where that came from. But it came so naturally that he had no choice but to stand by it, even when House blinked at him in surprise.

“You are not at all what I expected,” he said under his breath.

Wilson cupped his jaw, holding his gaze, pressing his thumb against House’s bottom lip. “What did you expect?”

“Someone inexperienced and nervous, who listened well to directions, and had a decent chance of asking me to top because he has no idea what he’s doing,” House mumbled. “Feels like I got the complete opposite. Definitely not complaining, though. Are you sure you’ve never done this before?”

Wilson tilted his head. “Just going by instinct.”

House looked up at him skeptically, nipping at his thumb. “Your wives told me you were sweet in bed. They didn’t say anything about you being like this.”  

“They don’t know I’m like this,” Wilson said, and to be fair, neither did he. But now, he was all too aware of the thrumming in his sinew and muscle and bone, setting his veins alight, moving him to run his hand down House’s neck and press his fingers to his carotid artery. “Is it bad?” Wilson asked, gently squeezing.

House’s breath caught in his throat, his bright eyes going distant. Curiously, his entire body went slack, melting into the bed.

“Answer me, Greg,” Wilson said softly.

House shook his head minutely, which was possibly as much as he could move. “Not bad. Very not bad,” he said hoarsely, then after a moment of stubbornness, added, “God, please fuck me already.”

Wilson released him and rewarded him with a peck on the corner of his mouth. “Since you said please. How’s the leg?”

“Extremely fucking horny.”

Wilson sighed. He planted his knees into the mattress, drew back enough to feel House’s empty hole clenching desperately around him, then thrust back inside. This was the part Wilson always got lost in, his partner clinging to him with all available limbs, wringing choked out, needy noises from them, pounding into them until they were a crying, incoherent mess. It was something he found in one night stands and lost in all his marriages, when he ended up with women who wanted to make love neatly and tenderly. He tried to convince himself he didn't miss it, that there were other things he could find pleasure in, but he couldn't deny that it was heady and addictive, having that much power over someone. Especially House, who was clawing the shit out of his back and moaning so low, it was nearly an endless growl.

“I should’ve known,” House whined through gritted teeth. “I should have—”

Wilson set his cruel teeth to the side of House’s neck, biting and sucking as he pleased, licking along the trail of reddened marks he left behind. “Should have what?”

“Should’ve—earlier—fuck, I wanted you,” House said roughly. “For years.”

Wilson pushed his fingers through House’s hair, leaning back and finding his eyes. “How long?”

“First time we met,” House replied shamelessly, scratching his nails down Wilson’s chest. “Your divorce with Sam. You were so tightly fucking wound. Wanted you to take it out on me. I would’ve gotten on my knees for you in the middle of that parking lot.”

“Fuck,” Wilson breathed, almost laughing. He dipped down and kissed him, slowing his pace down to a filthy grind again just to feel him squirm and buck. “I was pissed off enough. Maybe I would’ve let you.”

He hadn’t really thought about House in that way back then, nor the next time they met. Not consciously, at least. He was good-looking as a passive observation, flirty in a flippant way, and only reminded Wilson of his shortcomings whenever he showed up. But if House had said something before now, would they have ended up here earlier? How many unsuccessful marriages would he have avoided, or would they have just happened with other men?

“You should’ve tried back then,” Wilson said decidedly. “I wish you did. I didn’t know I wanted this.”

House regarded him closely, almost skeptically. “You never considered it before? Not even once? It could explain the divorces.”

Wilson's nostrils flared. “The divorces were because I’m an inattentive, unfaithful husband. I can acknowledge my wrongdoings.”

“Inattentive because women simply don’t hold your attention… Unfaithful because you’re looking for the golden pussy that’ll heal you from wayward homosexual thoughts…”

“Sounds like projection. Is that why your girlfriend left you?” Wilson countered, wondering why he was even entertaining this conversation while he was still inside him.

House chuckled, hiking his leg back up and around Wilson's waist. “No, she left because I became a bitter, jaded asshole who couldn’t play golf with her anymore, but she always knew I was batting for both teams.”

“She didn’t mind?”

“Of course not. I was a lot of things, but I wasn’t a cheater,” House said pointedly.

Wilson gave him a sharp look and held it, shifting the angle of his hips and driving into him, watching intently as House’s eyes nearly rolled back into his head.

“If I’m such an asshole,” Wilson said, sneaking a hand between them to jerk him off as he fucked him faster, deeper, “what does that say about you? That you watched me lie, and cheat, and hurt people for years, but you still wanted me in your bed, still begged for my cock?”

House thrashed under him, groaning and keening, an arm thrown over his face. “Fuck, Wilson,” he grunted, close enough to a cry that Wilson nearly lost it, himself.

“You like that I’m fucked up. You love it. It gets you off,” Wilson accused, almost crushing House in half with the force of each thrust. He bent down and bit at House’s lower lip, teeth sinking in until he was sure it drew blood. “Look at me when you come.”

House heaved a shuddering breath, dropping his arm and blearily glaring at him. “Bossy little bitch,” he said petulantly.

“Submissive little slut,” Wilson retorted. “Hurry up, before I go and get married again.”

“You motherfucker,” House spat, half-grinning and painfully handsome, then he threw his head back, going tight like a vice. He came hard, his whole body seizing, and Wilson milked him through it until his chest and stomach were splattered with white. His moans quieted to overstimulated whimpers and insulting complaints, until Wilson relented and let go of his sensitive, softening dick.

“Leg still okay?” Wilson inquired, dropping a kiss onto House’s sweaty forehead.

“Ask me again and I’ll shoot you with a gun,” he said evenly.

Still, Wilson courteously avoided jostling it further, making sure it was propped up and out of the way before he braced himself on the bed and rocked into him, growing wild and desperate. He was close, could feel it simmering beneath his skin, sparking behind his closed eyelids, and House was pliant and sweet now, all the fight fucked out of him.

“Come on, do it,” House urged as he got his hands into Wilson's hair, tugging, making a mess of it. Distantly, it occurred to him that he’d always asked his wives and girlfriends not to touch it, because he was particular about the way it looked and how much effort he put into styling it every morning. That didn’t make any sense to him now, when it felt so good, so primal.

He was already on the edge, at the precipice, licking the salt off House’s skin as he held him down. Then House latched onto Wilson's earlobe with his teeth, stubble scraping at him. “I wanna feel you come, Jimmy, let me see you,” he said into his ear, in that ridiculously deep, smoky voice, and that was enough to send Wilson pitching forward, his orgasm hitting hard and fast, pleasure clawing through his burning muscles and straining lungs. He buried himself deep, heard House go oof under him, and fucked him slower and shallower until he was spent and aching.

Wilson pulled out delicately and they both winced. It was tempting to flop back down on top of House, heedless of the mess, but Wilson rolled onto his side instead, taking a second to catch his breath. He considered saying something, if there was anything to be said, at all. He waited on House, wondering if House was waiting on him, too. Eventually, House pointedly cleared his throat, nodding towards a door across the hall, so Wilson sighed and rolled off the bed, grabbing his boxers as he went.

He trashed the condom and wiped off with a damp towel, then grabbed a second towel. Wilson tossed it at House and climbed back into bed, watching him clean himself off, scarred right thigh tucked delicately under the blankets. Wilson thought about pulling the sheets away, telling him he didn’t mind it, that he’d kiss it to prove it.

Instead, he just took the towel from House and helped him wipe up the spots he missed.

“So,” House said, stretching his arms over his head as he moved away and sat back against the headboard. “Pretty good. Points for style, but one mark deducted because there was a moment when I thought you were going to spit in my mouth, but you didn’t. Tease.”

Wilson folded his arms over his bare chest, looking down at his lap, starting to get cold and sticky. He tried not to read into the space House put between them, nor why it bothered him so much. He wanted to get back under the covers, to pull House down with him. “Is it always that… intense?”

“The first time? Oh, yeah. Especially if you’ve only ever slept with women before.”

Having a sexuality crisis at just about forty seemed so pedestrian, but there it was. If he really thought about it, it didn’t feel like a crisis at all. It was a fact, just one that he had somehow overlooked, but now rang loud and present in his ears.

“Also,” House continued, watching him carefully, “if you’re more used to having five minutes of polite missionary, instead of doing what you really want to do in bed. And I’m pretty sure you just figured that out, too.”

Wilson looked over, trying to get a read on him. “Should I apologize?” he asked.

“Nope,” House said, sounding smug. “Are you kidding? I usually have to pay for sex like that.”

Wilson frowned at him, and then his stomach growled, resonant in the quiet room. A glance at the alarm clock on the side table explained why. “We missed dinner.”

House laughed, reaching for his cane. “You like Chinese?”

They ordered in (Wilson did, House was busy looking for something on TV) and sat on the couch to eat. They spread the food out on the coffee table and picked at everything while they watched a baseball game, sitting a respectable distance away from each other, though their chopsticks sometimes collided when they were going for the same fried fishball. It was uncomfortably comfortable. The kind of domestic Wilson could easily get used to, which was immediately troubling, and probably bad news. It was like having a best friend you always want to jump.

“I can hear you overthinking,” House said suddenly, eyes still on the screen. “You got divorced in the morning, then fucked another man into submission in the afternoon. Big day. I’m trying to give you a little room to breathe.”  

“I don’t want it,” Wilson said firmly. “And I’m spending the night. Don’t bother changing the sheets yet.”

House smiled around his mouthful of noodles.

—

Morning came. Wilson woke up first and hunted through House’s sparse pantry to figure out breakfast, and heard the shower turn on soon after. The vegetables in the back of the fridge had seen better days, but they’d be fine tossed into an omelette, alongside some sausages that were only a few days out from going off. The toast had just popped by the time House made his way into the kitchen, hair still dripping wet. He came up behind Wilson and wrapped an arm around his middle, nosing at the back of his ear, soaking his borrowed t-shirt.

“You really didn’t seem like the cuddly type to me,” Wilson remarked. Then House slipped his hand under the waistband of Wilson’s boxers. “I stand corrected. You’re the grope-y type, which makes much more sense.”

“It would’ve been easier to order in,” House said, long fingers inching dangerously close to the base of Wilson’s cock. “Or do you always cook a nice, balanced breakfast for all your hookups?”

Wilson rolled his eyes. “Do you always fuck your clients’ exes?”

“Just the easy ones,” House said into his ear, giving the soft lobe a nip with his teeth before pulling away.

Unsure what to make of that, Wilson plated up their food and they ate at the kitchen table, listening to morning radio and glancing at each other between bites.

“Do you have work today?” Wilson eventually asked.

“Pretrial conference at noon,” House said, prodding at a soggy piece of red pepper that had escaped from the eggs. “You?”

“I took the morning off. I always do, after my divorce hearings. I’m usually pretty hungover,” he admitted. “But I’ll have to be back at the hospital around lunch.”

A slightly uncertain silence settled over them as they glanced down at their watches.

“Do you think we—”

“We still have—”

They both started, then stopped, then abandoned their plates and headed back to the bedroom, laughing and shoving at each other the whole way. Wilson tried not to think about the fact that the bubble would burst as soon as he walked out that front door. It would all be over, and he’d be back to sorting through the ruins of his life.

But for now, at least, he had this. House laid prone on the bed with his thighs pushed apart, and Wilson took him like that, pressed tight to his back, teeth fixed to the junction of House’s neck and shoulder. Wilson could stay seated deep inside him like this, and it was far easier on House’s leg, which he only entertained one question about while he was busy drooling into a pillow and coming untouched. They got in the shower together (House’s second of the morning, Wilson’s first), made out against the tiles, and Wilson jerked him off until he came dry, trying to gather up a catalogue of sounds and touches he could take with him when he left. He didn't know how to walk away from this and go back to his cold hotel room.

Being alone had always been hard for him, coming from a big family, moving into large dorms, living with his first wife, going back to living with roommates while he finished his residency. He only ever lived by himself for the brief pockets of time between his marriages. He slept better with someone else in bed, having someone else to think about, to cook for, to talk to. Maybe he could just adopt a cat with special needs to tide him over. That would certainly be easier than figuring out why he couldn’t make any of his relationships work, why commitment seemed to elude him.

In the meantime, he had slightly more pressing matters, like the sluggish, uneasy feeling that gripped him as he watched their morning tick away.

“It’s fucked up that I like you so much,” Wilson said, in a moment of raw, pathetic vulnerability. It felt like a deathbed confession, and he was giving it on House’s couch. He had to leave soon, collect his car, get back to work and pretend like he hadn’t been irrevocably changed. “It’s not just me, right? Tell me it’s not just me.”

House looked up from his laptop, blinking over his reading glasses. Wilson wanted to blow him again. He settled for pulling House’s bare feet into his lap.

“Which part is fucked up?” House asked, carefully sidestepping around Wilson’s actual question. “That I’m a man? Or that I’m your ex’s divorce lawyer, three times over?”

Wilson shook his head a little. “None of it. All of it. I don’t know,” he admitted. “I can’t stop thinking that we could’ve been doing this for fifteen years.”

“That’s a really long time,” House said, turning back to his work. “And you have a wandering eye. I wouldn’t have stuck around.”

Wilson deserved that, but still, his mouth twisted into a frown. “I would’ve gone to therapy.”

“But you never did. You still haven’t,” House pointed out. “You know, I used to think therapy was a load of crap, but I’ve seen it save marriages, keep families together, bring people back from the brink of total self-destruction. Might be worth looking into, if you’re serious about changing your wicked ways and doing an overhaul of your life.” Advice disguised underneath a distastefully sarcastic tone.

“Do you think I’m a bad person?” Wilson asked.

“Does it matter what I think?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It just matters,” Wilson replied honestly. “You know enough about the things I’ve done to have an opinion of me.”

House shut his laptop and took his glasses off, setting them both on the coffee table. “No, Wilson, I don’t think you’re a bad person.”

“I’m sensing a but, here.”

With a heavy sigh, House sat up and patted the seat next to him. Wilson shifted over on the couch, unable to find it within himself to be embarrassed about his sudden-onset clinginess both being seen and accommodated for. House didn't hold him or anything, but the closeness was enough.

“I think you don’t know what you really want. You only know that you like the feeling of being needed. It gives you a purpose. That’s why you keep proposing to emotionally dependent women you’ve only known for six months, and leaving them in the dust as soon as you find another one who seems like she needs you a little more than the last,” House said softly. “Sam needed you for money while she got her career started, Bonnie needed you after a bad breakup, Julie needed you because she was going through unsuccessful fertility treatments. All your little girlfriends in between probably needed you, too. You liked being there for them, but barely got to know them outside of what you could provide them, and you always realized your monumental incompatibilities too late. Rather than having commitment issues, you've got overcommitment issues, likely stemming from chronic people-pleasing tendencies as a result of Middle Child Syndrome. And it doesn't escape me that you specifically chose a career that gives you unlimited access to the sick and dying, just so you can keep flexing your saviour complex muscles,” he paused, gauging Wilson’s reaction. “Mostly, I think you made a lot of bad, short-sighted decisions, but you’re gonna keep on making them until you actually learn from them. I mean, I’m no fucking saint, either. Everyone is miserable and screwed up in their own way. I just try not to get married about it.”

Feeling properly dressed-down, Wilson took a deep breath, sitting with that for a few long, silent moments. House gave him that time, placing a hand on his thigh. It was warm, grounding, marginally soothing the sting of his words.

“You really don’t hold back, huh?” Wilson asked.

House shifted lower into his seat, until he could rest his head on Wilson's shoulder. “You should see me in a cross-examination. A real one, not the softball ones I do at your hearings.”

“You were going easy on me?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

Wilson snorted. “Thanks, then. On behalf of my lawyers.”

House looked up at him. “Don’t expect it again. I mean it, stop getting married, or next time, we’ll take you for everything you’ve got.” Maybe it was a real warning. Wilson wouldn’t put it past him.

Despite that, he gave House a rueful smile. “If I don’t get married, I’ll never see you again.”

House went quiet. It seemed he had no sugar-coated, witty way to reject Wilson, though they both knew that was what hung in the air between them. Wilson couldn’t blame him for not wanting to attach himself to a depressed, anxious, thrice-divorcee, but that didn't stop his chest from feeling sore.

“We could just be friends for now,” Wilson offered. “While I’m getting my life together. Figuring out what I actually want.”

“Well, I’ve been told I’m a pretty needy friend,” House said, grabbing Wilson’s arm and securing it around him. “Lucky for you.”

—

James Wilson was forty-one when Gregory House finally agreed to turn their twice-weekly dinners into actual dates, forty-two when his psychiatrist recommended that he start weaning off his antidepressants, and forty-five when House informed him that, while he still didn’t want to get married, he could be talked into a civil union with an ironclad prenup.

(Sam, Bonnie, and Julie attended the ceremony, and gifted them three different toasters.)