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Everything’s the same, only different. They still eat dinner together. Only now, sometimes Wilson takes House’s fork right from him and takes the bite that was rightfully his. They still argue about what to watch on TV. Only now, sometimes Wilson will lay his head on House’s shoulder while it’s on. Wilson still does the dishes. Only now, when Wilson takes their plates to the sink, he drops a kiss to House’s head on his way through. They still sit and do nothing together in the living room. Only now, when Wilson grabs a book and his stupid reading glasses, he slides his cold feet under House’s thigh when he sits down across from him.
House stares. He reads Wilson’s face while Wilson reads his book. He is far too much to look at, yet House can’t look away. He needs a haircut. While he’s leaned forward like this, his bangs fall over one of his far too bushy brows. The brows that sit right above the curve of his eyelashes, which cover the deep color of his eyes. House hates his reading glasses. He wants to punch him. Or kiss him forever and ever until they die. Or something. The glasses. Right. They sit on the bridge of his nose, which sits over the bow of his upper lip. It follows the curve of his cheekbone and leads down to the line of his jaw. All of which to say, he needs a haircut. House can see the curl of hair starting to peek out from under his ears.
He lifts his hand to wrap around the back of Wilson’s ankle, raising his thumb underneath the fabric of his pajama pants to draw circles on his bare skin. Wilson glances up and flushes when he’s met with House’s eyes already staring at him. Wilson briefly participates in the staring contest. He’s distractingly beautiful. He smiles. It’s small, and mostly with his eyes, but House catches it. Wilson goes back to his book. House wonders what he did to give himself away. It seems, in these moments, that Wilson is devastatingly aware of how House is feeling. He flexes the hand on Wilson’s ankle and resettles it. He wants to knock his book out of his hands. Or shove his legs off the couch. Or grab both of his ankles and slide him down so his ass is against House’s thigh. He wants. His hand betrays him by straying up from Wilson’s ankle to his calf. It wraps around so his fingers land on his shin. He idly scratches at the hair there. His eyebrow twitches in irritation at his own traitorous limb. How can he even begin to pretend to be indifferent?
He should be bored. He, unfortunately, never finds Wilson boring. He decides enough is enough and retracts his hand to stand. He puts both hands on his cane while he shifts his weight to stretch his legs.
Beer. That’s what he needs.
He walks around the side of the couch in the direction of the kitchen. He makes the mistake of once again indulging his vicious desire to look. Wilson’s taken advantage of House’s absence. He’s laid his book down on his chest and stretched his legs out all the way. House watches, transfixed, as he stretches his arms up behind his head. His shirt rides up, revealing a strip of pale skin above his waistline. It keeps going up and up as he arches his back into a stretch. He makes a slight noise when his back pops. He lazily slinks back into the couch. House swallows.
Whiskey, then.
When he flicks his eyes back up to Wilson’s face, Wilson’s already looking at him. he raises an eyebrow. “You’re starting to give me the creeps, ya know,” he teases.
They both know it’s a lie. Wilson likes that House has completely monopolized him. He likes that House knows him. Notices him. The truth of it is that Wilson is just as helpless to House’s obsession as House is.
“I’m always watching,” House says conspiratorially. Wilson graces him with an amused look and returns to reading.
House finally makes his way to the kitchen. He does decide on whiskey and pours himself a glass. He downs it in one go. He slides the glass back and forth between his hands a few times. Drums his fingertips on the counter. Maybe he’ll play. He’s been playing a lot, recently. Wilson had told him he likes it when he plays. Likes the sound to fill their- House's apartment. Likes that he can hear House playing in the background. Likes that it’s House, specifically, even. (Which had, of course, gone unsaid.) It’s not a hardship. House likes to play. It’s nice to play knowing Wilson’s in the other room. It’s disgustingly domestic. Most of the time, playing earns him soft, faraway gazes. On occasion, he’d played songs he knows Wilson enjoys when Wilson had a bad day. Wilson, in return, had put his hand on the nape of House’s neck and said, “Thank you.” He’d played melancholic when he’d had his own. Wilson had run a hand through his hair and kissed his temple. House is such a sucker for positive reinforcement. He’s quickly becoming addicted to it, much like anything else.
He makes his way over to the piano. Carefully, he does not sneak a peek at Wilson as he passes. He stretches his hands out and in. His fingers move across the keys, and then he’s playing. He fills the room with a few short melodies. Warm-ups, his mind supplies. For what?
Then it happens. Again, as it always does. His gaze drifts up to Wilson. He watches. Wilson turns the page. House absorbs the rustle of the paper. He wants to watch Wilson read every day. He’s wanted to have Wilson here, with him, every day since he met him. He can’t tear his eyes away. He can’t not look when he’s right there. To be the center of his attention is all he ever wants. It's all Wilson ever is. It’s been almost too much. Not that House can ever get enough. It just feels like more than he deserves. He waits and waits for the other shoe to drop. The other woman. Then Wilson will do something insane, like call him handsome or put a hand on his thigh while they watch TV. A horrid, desperate cycle of watching and waiting. It’s so much more than House could have hoped for. He studies him a moment longer, then returns his attention to the piano. He plays. He starts quietly, then carries the crescendo over Wilson’s halo. It’s distressingly romantic. He observes Wilson standing in his peripheral vision, resisting turning his head fully to look. He drags a hand across the back of the House’s shoulders as he walks by. He disappears from House’s vision, then returns a minute later. He leans against the wall and watches. He doesn’t lean on the piano while he plays anymore, since he scolded him last time.
“Sorry if I disturbed you, princess,” House says as he ends the song.
“Yeah,” Wilson replies and waves a hand through the air, “all that racket was giving me a headache.”
He squeezes onto the bench next to House and wraps his arms around his shoulders to land a kiss on his jaw.
“A headache you say,” House says when he pulls back. He glances at Wilson’s crotch and then back up again. “You should let a doctor take a look at that.”
Wilson smirks. “Well,” he starts as he stands, “you’re a doctor, aren’t you?” He takes a few steps toward House’s bedroom. He stops and looks over his shoulder. His thumb slides along his waistband, causing the loose pajama bottoms to slip further down his hips. “Are you looking?”
He keeps walking, and House staggers up to follow, a man possessed. A dog nipping at his heels. A cartoon character floating toward something sweet and out of reach. He feels ridiculous.
When House catches up, he copies Wilson’s move and slides his own fingers along the elastic from behind him. Wilson chuckles lightly and turns around. When he crosses his arm under House’s to shut the door behind him, and then lays his palm flat against House’s chest, House doesn’t think there’s anything funny or ridiculous about it.
Wilson kisses him. Slowly, openly. House melts into it. Wilson takes his cane and gently sets it against the wall. Then he hums into House’s mouth and pulls him with him as he walks backward toward House’s bed. He lets himself fall back onto the mattress. House follows. He leans forward to kiss him. He straightens and puts his hands on Wilson’s sides. They make eye contact. House opens his mouth, then closes it. Too afraid he’ll tell the truth.
He slides his hands up, taking Wilson’s shirt with them. He drinks in every expanse of skin that’s revealed. He keeps going, hypnotized as his knuckles drag along bare skin. He pulls the shirt all the way off and tosses it. His hands instantly find their way back to his sides, across his chest. He licks into the dip between his collar bones, at the base of his throat. Wilson sighs. House chases the sound with his tongue, smothering it with a deep kiss. Wilson groans. He paws at House’s shirt and tugs when he gets a grip. They separate so House can remove it. House brushes his thumb across Wilson’s mandible. Ghosts over his larynx. He slowly wraps his hand around his trachea, causing Wilson to look up at him with wide eyes. Then he traces a finger across his clavicle and continues to his sternum. He examines each rib. Cataloging each reaction, every breath. Wilson catches his wayward hand. He lifts it to kiss his palm and then rests his cheek against it. Gut-wrenching.
“What’re you thinking?” he’s looking at him with big, gooey eyes. What a reckless question. What a dangerous face.
“What a couple of homos,” House snarks.
Wilson smacks his hand away and rolls his eyes. “Funny. Almost as funny as me leaving you,” he starts to sit up as he says it.
House makes a disgruntled noise and shoves him back down. “I’m thinking about keeping you,” he concedes a little too honestly. Wilson relaxes, looking pleased. Manipulative bastard. House is certain that he’ll destroy him.
“What do you mean?” he brings his own hands up to either side of House’s face. House shakes his head and buries kisses into the side of Wilson’s neck instead of answering. Wilson laughs lightly, his hands moving to rest in House’s hair. “C’mon,” he presses.
House huffs frustratedly. “Keep you. Right here. Trap you. Tie you up. Kidnap you. The whole nine yards."
Wilson lights up. “Yeah?” he asks, cheeks pink, hips rolling forward.
House releases a heavy breath. Why doesn’t that scare him? “Yeah, yeah, whatever it takes,” he says quickly, distracted. “Will you take your pants off now?”
Wilson rolls his eyes again. Didn’t his mother ever warn him they’d roll right out of his head one day? Still, he complies, picking his hips up to start pushing them down. House quickly takes over the job, frantically pulling them all the way off. House whistles appreciatively and slides his hands up Wilson’s thighs. It earns him the face he’s been met with a lot lately. A mix between flattered and irritated. A pretty blush, but pinched browns. Flared nostrils and the edge of his mouth twitching, trying not to smile. It’s one of his favorites. Easily in the top five out of the hundreds that House has collected over the years. Wilson looks embarrassed and reluctant to do so, but gestures beside him. House removes his eyes from Wilson for the first time since they’d arrived here. It really is a testament to House’s devotion that he hadn’t noticed anything else, because right there beside him was a little bottle and a condom.
“My, Wilson, you sly dog,” House flirts, pointedly drawing a finger down Wilson’s chest. “Gonna let me go all the way now that we’re goin' steady?”
Wilson scoffs and then jumps at the sound of House popping the cap. “You do one sweet thing and then make up for it by being a complete ass.”
House has to think for a second about what he did and says, “I always knew my sweet tuneage would get me laid.” He starts working in a slicked up finger. (Serious positive reinforcement.)
“I’m starting to think I made a mistake,” Wilson tries, but it comes out all breathy and strained.
House kisses him and starts slowly pumping his finger in and out. Wilson breathes out through his nose, and his lips part a bit more. House presses down, kissing him fervently. He nudges in a second finger. Wilson makes an exquisite noise and bears down beautifully. House absolutely has to see him, so he wrenches away to look.
Wilson’s laid bare beneath him, his hair curling on his forehead from sweat. House chokes on all the pitiful, pathetic things he would never ever say. Wilson looks at him and grins like he’s said all of it anyway.
“What’re you thinking?” Wilson repeats, dripping confidence.
Warranted confidence, unfortunately. He’s absurdly stunning. House is pretty sure the stiffness in his leg is the only reason things aren’t over embarrassingly quickly. He needs to wipe that cocky smirk off Wilson’s face to regain some balance. He scissors his fingers a few times and pushes in a third, then thrusts them twice against his prostate in quick succession. Wilson makes the most gorgeous surprised face. His eyebrows pinch, and his mouth falls open into a moan. It’s obscene.
“C’mere,” Wilson murmurs and puts pressure on the back of House’s thigh with his heel.
House pulls out his fingers and wipes them off on the blanket. He braces his hands and brings up his good leg to put his weight on, then crawls over him. As soon as he’s up, Wilson rolls him over onto his back. He helps him work off his pants and then guides him to lift his hips so he can slip a pillow under him, which makes it a little harder to pretend that they switched positions for Wilson’s benefit instead of for his leg. Wilson draws his hands up House’s sides. He opens the condom and leans forward. He pants into his mouth while he rolls it on. It’s tragically sensual. House hears the cap to the lube pop open and click shut. Wilson closes the gap to kiss him lightly a few times. He pulls back just enough to watch House’s face as he wraps a slicked-up hand around him. He slowly moves his hand up and down. He starts to sit up. House follows, propping himself up on his elbows to capture a kiss. Wilson pulls back too quickly, though, and dodges it. He uses the flat of his hand to push House back down by the forehead. He starts to yell hey, but it dies in his throat as Wilson throws a leg over his hips to straddle him.
He lines up, and the whole room gets tense and quiet. He starts sinking down. House cannot look away. His hands find Wilson’s hips. He observes and manually stores every detail into his long-term memory. He bottoms out. They’re both still and heavy breathing. Wilson catches his eye, hands splayed out against his chest. House starts drawing light circles with his thumbs.
“James.” It’s weighted. Thick.
He looks shocked for a moment, and then his face displays his total ruthless adoration. “Yeah,” he answers. He rolls his hips. “Yeah.”
Wilson’s eyes flutter shut, and he starts grinding down. His breath’s hitching with each roll. He keeps a steady rhythm until House reaches up and covers one of his hands with his own. His hips stutter, and his eyes fly back open. Who knew romance was the key to Wilson’s dick?
House puts one arm behind him to sit up. Wilson gravitates toward him automatically, and they’re kissing again, groaning into each other’s mouths. Wilson wraps his arms under House’s shoulders. Chest to chest. House slides his now free hand in the small space between them to push him over the edge. He moans and pushes harder against House’s mouth, coming. Then he keeps pushing until House is lying flat on his back again. He keeps a steady grind, looking down at House salaciously. One hand’s covering House’s own on his hip, the other’s got a light grip in House’s hair. It’s filthy. House groans and thrusts upward as he comes.
Wilson sits for a second, panting. Then, he carefully lifts himself up and over. He collapses next to him. House takes off the condom, ties it, and tosses it.
“Ugh, you’re disgusting,” Wilson complains. he assesses the damage. “We’re disgusting,” he corrects.
He gets up and wanders off in the direction of the bathroom. When he returns, he starts washing House up with a warm rag.
“You know you really are a fantastic nurse.”
Wilson ignores him. He tosses the rag, despite his complaints, and climbs back into bed beside him. “I’m letting you take a power nap, and then we’re taking a shower and changing the sheets,” Wilson informs him as he settles in.
“Right. Because I only do things when you let me.” There’s dissonance between his actions and his words as his arm raises automatically to let Wilson in. “And clearly this nap is for my benefit.”
He wraps it around Wilson’s shoulders. Wilson noses at his chest and yawns. “Everything I do is for your benefit.” House doesn’t waste his breath responding with any of the colorful things he could say in response to that.
Wilson’s already falling asleep. House trails a hand up his vertebrae. Lumbar, thoracic, cervical. Something divine and worthy of sacrament is drooling on his chest. He simultaneously feels completely undeserving and like the fucking man. He may be a miserable old fuck, but look at the absolute beaut that’s lying beside him. He resists the urge to pull Wilson’s hair or wake him up by yelling and shaking him.
“Shut up and go to sleep,” he mumbles, muffled by House’s chest.
He starts drifting off with the distinct notion that it’s because he’s tired, not because Wilson told him to. He blinks Wilson’s form in and out of focus. He holds Wilson’s image in his mind as he falls asleep.