Chapter Text
House had gotten home first, riding his motorcycle through the snow-slicked roads and praying that he’d crash because at least then he wouldn’t have to live with his throbbing, aching, swollen mess of a leg for a moment longer. When he had limped past Wilson’s office to the elevator, he had seen the man look up at him, seen that face he hated so dearly: brows knitted and eyes wide, practically oozing at that point. And the man had stood up, opening his mouth as if he wanted to ask him to sit down, to talk it out, to let him help.
Fuck that.
Just because they were in a relationship, which House had explicitly said was only a friends-with-benefits situation, didn’t mean that he was suddenly allowed to do whatever he wanted under the guise of help. No, no no no. House had huffed and given Wilson a massive eye roll before bolting for the lift, his dead leg screaming at how he forced it to function. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t just limp towards the elevator with his right leg dragging behind him like some loose cargo. People would see.
Wilson would see.
And if he’d known that it had gotten that bad, he’d have never let him ride home, too worried about an accident or a slip-up or a fiery crash into an icy ditch in some cold hole. He’d have felt obligated to meddle in his business, to grab him and order him to “get into the damn car” as if he owned him, as if he was doing House a favour. And he could’ve been, especially after that last skid over a concealed pothole, his tires losing traction, the metal bike swerving dangerously before he braked and forced it back onto the road.
But eventually, he had made it back, and his first order of business was popping two of his favourite pills in the safe enclave where no one but him would know. It was only a temporary reprieve, though, because with every extra dose, his remaining pills dwindled and soon he’d have to explain to Wilson why he needed a scrip after he’d just prescribed for him not too long ago. But House knew that the questioning, the intimidation tactics that little Jimmy learned from Handling Drug Addicts 101, was all some sort of smokescreen, more for his benefit than House’s. It made him feel better when he inevitably “gave in” and signed the prescription, as if handing the drugs to him wasn’t his own kind of hit.
Because if Wilson just gave him the pills without all the moralizing, he’d be forced to face what was becoming of him. Or what he’d always been.
Not that House cared. He shoved the orange pill bottle back into his jacket which he hadn’t shed because his heating was still shoddy even after berating his landlord and threatening to sue for Hate Crimes Against People with Disabilities. Then, he finally let himself drag his right leg as he hobbled over to the sofa and threw himself down with a pathetic thud. Leaning the cane against the cushion’s edge, he grabbed the remote that Wilson had placed in the middle of the couch, because he knew that it hurt more to grab it off the coffee table. Again, the caring, the thoughtfulness.
It made him shudder.
The door creaked open, letting a cold gust of wind into the living room as House switched the television on with a strained jab at the remote’s buttons. Wilson didn’t say anything, and neither did House as he watched the football match while Wilson shed his coat. The thick, fur-lined thing was hooked neatly by the door, and there was some rustling as Wilson set the mail down together with his car keys. Only when another whrrr of winter swept past Wilson through the apartment’s open door did House spare the man a glance.
“Oh, sorry.” As expected, he immediately pulled the door shut and locked it swiftly, his dress shirt neat and devoid of even a single trace of snow. House didn’t stare for long, instead choosing to bring his gaze back to the men kicking around a ball on the screen. There had been a time, or multiple times, when they’d come back in a flurry of heat, when House couldn’t take his eyes off him as they grabbed and kissed and leaned against each other, panting for breath. There had also been times when the pain demanded too much and they bickered and fought, brows knitted and mouths twisted as the pain circled round and round, threatening to devour them.
Wilson would always guilt him, saying that if only he’d tried harder to get clean, that he didn’t really need the pills, that this was just his way of escaping the world. And then he’d offer himself up patronizingly, saying shit like “I can help you” or “Let me replace the pills”, as if sex and love was enough to undo nerve damage, as if one good fuck could extract the corpses of his dying muscle. House would rather Wilson hit him, hate him, anything but his begging, his desperation to help, to matter, to be useful — the damn people pleaser. He didn’t want to reject him, to tell the wide-eyed boy that his dreams were worth nothing, that he couldn’t do anything to relieve this kind of suffering.
The man in question settled down beside him, crossing his legs casually as his eyes followed the digital ball’s trajectory. Then, he checked his watch and made a sharp sigh before meeting House’s eye. “It’s late,” he stated, already getting up and extending a hand towards House, intending to help him up.
Not today.
“I’m not tired.” He looked past Wilson at the television.
“It’s late,” Wilson repeated, and House made an irritated sound. Amazingly, Wilson didn’t shrink or back down at that, instead grabbing the remote out of House’s lax grip and turning his grainy football match to black. “You should go to bed,” he said, gently placing the remote back in the centre of the couch. “I’ll get your heating pad.”
“I told you,” House spat, glaring up at where Wilson was staring down at him, “I’m not fucking tired, darling, so bring your caring wife act to someone who wants it.”
Wilson’s eyes narrowed; his composure was wearing thin. “You’re in pain.”
“No shit.”
“It’s 11 pm, House.”
“It could be 3 for all I care. I’m not tired.” House latched his fingers around his cane, bringing the laminated wooden stick up and pointing it at Wilson, “Sit down, or get out.”
When Wilson refused to budge, or even reply, House poked him lightly in the hip with the rubber tip of his cane, and the man just arched a brow before pushing the stick away. Sighing loudly, House returned his cane back to its casual lean against the couch, giving Wilson one final scowl before muttering, “It hurt too much to sleep last night.”
Concern bled into the man’s body and his arms were up and gesturing, his legs shifting closer unintentionally. Wilson asked, “Even with the—”
“3 vicodin, heating pad, whiskey,” House shook his head. “It… I, it’s just breakthrough pain, but I’d like to be alone.”
Wilson immediately stiffened, going defensive at that singular word. “You’re hurting,” he began refuting, digging up reasons to throw at House’s marbled request, “you need someone to—”
“—tell me when to sleep? When to eat? When to—”
“—to help!” Frustrated, Wilson paced the narrow space between the couch and the coffee table. “God, House, not everything is about control. This isn’t a prison.”
“Sure feels like one,” House mumbled.
Wilson stopped in his tracks and brought his gaze to the floor. He impored the wooden floorboards, “Just let me help,” because he knew what House would answer. There was only ever one answer to what Wilson wanted.
“No.”
“Are you pushing me away?” Wilson asked, still staring at the floor.
“You been talking to Stacy?”
“She warned me. It’s what friends do.”
“Friends don’t gossip—”
“It wasn’t gossip, it was information. I had to know—”
“—what you were getting yourself into?” House sneered, “Didn’t want to buy the product without knowing its condition? Did she tell you about all the defects and give you a big discount?”
“For fuck’s sake, House…”
“Just say what you mean, then I won’t—”
“I am!” Wilson turned and took a few steps towards the couch, staring bravely into House’s spiteful eyes. “I want to know if you—if you’re leaving me, or… and… what I can do to—”
“I’m not leaving, what—”
“It sure looks like you are.”
“I…” House gestured lamely with his hands before letting them fall back onto the cushions. Wilson continued staring at him, waiting for an answer with his lips pressed into a thin line and his big, brown eyes watering over with a mixture of hate and fear. Another of Wilson’s classic expressions: I don’t want to lose you.
Gulping, House glanced meekly up at him and confessed, even though it reeked of sissiness and emasculation, even though it’d give Wilson everything his sick little mind was dreaming of, even though he’d spent the whole day and yesterday night fighting against this very moment, “It hurts.”
And Wilson instantly got to work, hoisting House up and shushing his small complaints as he practically carried him to the bedroom, setting the man onto the sheets as gently as possible, his fingers tenderly cupping his right thigh as he lifted the limp, sweaty thing onto the mattress. House stared at the ceiling throughout the process, only relaxing once Wilson turned away to get the heating pad from his wardrobe. He had been gritting his teeth and fighting the urge to bat Wilson’s tender, caressing hands away, to prick his stupidly concerned eyes with his grimy nails, to spit out what he was thinking of this saviour complex, this reverse parasitism, this sort of suffering-to-cleanse-oneself thing he was doing.
And when he returned with the steady thrum of the heating pad, probably already recharged dutifully by his far too willing manservant, House hissed and rolled over onto his good side, bringing his bad leg away from Wilson’s prying, feverish fingers. He hated how they felt, so soft and loving and they always made him feel so undeserving. Grabbing House’s shoulder lightly, his touches ephemereal as he tugged him back, Wilson spouted reassuring platitudes like “You’re fine” and “I’ve got you” as he positioned the raging, burning warmth under his thigh.
But it didn’t pierce hard enough, only remaining as a dull hum beneath his jeans, and House moved to turn the heat dial up but Wilson stopped him. “You’ll hurt yourself,” he stated with a steady, ever gentle grip around House’s wrist.
“I’m already hurting,” and House shook Wilson’s fingers off, scoffing when they still held. He ignored them and reached towards the dials, knowing that Wilson wasn’t the type to yank a cripple’s limb to get them to stop. Instead, the man watched as House sighed into the pillows, the machine churning ominously as the temperature cranked up, the black surface of it vibrating up against House’s thigh.
“You’ll burn,” Wilson warned, and he reached his free hand towards the dials but House swatted at it, slapping his arm away carelessly. He didn’t check to see if Wilson flinched at the hit because he knew that not giving a damn ticked him off more, and that was what he wanted.
He never wanted the sweet kisses and the useless touches, the warm buzzing and the harmless phrases. They did nothing to quell the pounding, the abysmal ache deep in his thigh that was always gripping onto his veins and trying to gouge its way out. He needed the flame, the fury, the sharp cut of it digging through him. He needed paralysis, fear, the belief that his life could end in a moment. Only a fight or a bite or a crack along his skull could override the slow melt down below, only by shoving his head into a volcano could he silence the nerves crawling up his spine. He wanted the lava, the scream, the bloody pieces of him strewn across a bartop. Would beg for the shards to cut and embed themselves in his skin, still dripping with whiskey as they nicked his arteries.
But Wilson never cared for his wishes, stubbornly sticking to what he thought would help him. He just smiled at House and shook his head fondly, saying, “I have an ice pack prepared anyway.”
The fire licked at his thigh, but it wasn’t enough, and he’d already known that. House glanced over at Wilson, studied his open face, and tried one last time, “Fuck you.”
Sweet as ever, Wilson replied, “Good night, House.”
Light cut in through his blinds, and House blinked his eyes open to observe the cold morning sky. It was white and cloudy, snow coming down in sheets, the trees waving and thrashing, implying strong winds and House thought about kites and happy children before his leg twitched and sliced hotly along his femur. “Fu…” he heaved, sweating into the sheets as a cramp took hold and the little black heater failed spectacularly at its job. Gasping already, air cutting through his mouth, House glanced around wildly, looking for the familiar tuft of brown accompanied by bleeding auburn eyes, but he was nowhere to be found.
A small feeling settled under his ribcage as he wondered whether Wilson had left, whether he had finally seen what House truly wanted and decided that he wanted nothing to do with it. There were other reasons, of course, there always were, like he had just been manipulating him and this was when he’d strike out, or he had gone out on a bender to forget about the misery of being with him. House shushed them before he realised he sounded like Wilson. After that, he just let them yell their lungs out as he shuffled stiffly to the edge of the bed, his thigh seizing at the movement.
As the pain eased off in jerks and pulses, House winced and breathed because that was about the extent of his capabilities. Then, he heard a rush of water, felt the spray of it hitting porcelain, and with a volume that large… it must be his bathtub. He relaxed just a little knowing that Wilson hadn’t left, and the knowledge of where he was motivated him to grab his cane and make the harrowing, leg-threatening journey to the bathroom.
He grunted, jaw locked around his pain as he finally crossed over from wood to tiled floor. Wilson glanced up at him and gave him a quick lookover before returning to his task of preparing the hot bath for him. There was no smile or “Good morning” today, so something had changed. House wanted to know, but asking directly would only get him a deflection like “I’m just tired” or “You weren’t exactly appreciative last night”, so he leaned against the wall and muttered, “I don’t want a bath.”
Wilson sighed openly, the gesture rather drawn-out and expressive, so unlike his usual curt scoffs of amusement-cum-disappointment. “Right,” he nodded mockingly while continuing with his preparation, adjusting the temperature low enough such that House wouldn’t scald himself, yet high enough so that he couldn’t whine about it being an ice bath. So meticulous, and House wanted to comment, but he thought better of it because Wilson would only take that as a compliment.
House stared into the swirling, warm water and muttered absentmindedly, “Haven’t I been naughty?” When Wilson stilled at that, House smiled and went on, “Tucking me in and now this whole bath thing makes it look like you’re mothering me. If you had a daddy kink, you could’ve just told me, Jimmy.”
“I’m helping. This isn’t a kink, House.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what you told Bonnie and all your other wives.”
“Are you—”
“—comparing myself to your past partners? Gosh, where’d I get that idea—”
“You’re not one of my wives, House.”
“Then why are you treating me like one?” House snarled, smacking his cane against the porcelain tub with a harmless thud, the thick white ceramic holding up against the weak strike. His right leg trembled and he leaned back further against the wall, bringing his cane back down beside him. “I don’t want your mindless coddling, Wilson.”
Seething, Wilson had snapped his head around to stare at House, and he was standing up, the bath entirely forgotten. “Mindless coddling? That’s what—”
“Yeah, that’s what I said. You losing your hearing already?”
Wilson narrowed his eyes, thinking over his words carefully as House glared at him from where he was resting his body weight against the wall. He knew better than to bring up how he was sacrificing his time, because House would just make it seem meaningless with an “I never asked you to”. He couldn’t say that he wanted to help him, to do this for him, because House would just say that he wasn’t helping or that he didn’t want his “pathetically unhelpful” help. He didn’t know what he could say anymore, and it was exhausting trying to come up with a new line of reasoning every time House decided to dig deep into his psyche.
So he asked, “Do you want me to hit you?”
“Is it so bad if I do?” House snapped back, his eyes fixed on Wilson’s expression as it morphed from anger to mild surprise, then back to the irritation he had been wearing when House first entered the bathroom. When Wilson turned back to the bathtub, House groaned, the complaint echoing off the tiles and reasserting itself multiple times as House returned his gaze to the ceiling.
So, it was reasonable for him to yelp like a girl when Wilson grabbed him by the shirt and plunged his upper body into the water.
“Www—!” He could hardly get a word out before his head hit the water, the heat of it scalding and prickling his skin, flushing it instantly as the swirling vortex of the gushing tap drove a continuous stream of boiling water into his eyes. Thrashing, he braced his hands against the floor of the tub and pushed up, what with how his good leg was uselessly skidding against the bathroom floor, but Wilson’s hand fisted in his hair and held him under.
House could feel the steady weight of him pressing against his ass, knew that he was watching his right leg convulse while his good one slid desperately against the tiles, and yet he was doing nothing to help anymore. Yelling into the water, House only managed to run out of air faster, bubbles rushing out just as he regretted his actions. Coughing against the blinding pressure and heat and movement as the tap gushed and the water slapped against his body, House reached his arms towards Wilson, swinging at him blindly, but the man simply used his free hand to clamp them both to the small of his back, the manoeuvre pushing House deeper into the roiling tub.
He was openly choking now, his vision of the bottom of the tub going spotty as he gagged and drank in the fire, the heat of it searing the inside of his throat before pooling in his belly. Sputtering, he gulped even more, throat muscles convulsing in panic as he swallowed the soup of his sweat and Wilson’s love, sobbing at the thought of dying with that poison in him.
Then, he felt weak, vertigo hauling his head around as the hypoxia started settling in. But still, he fought, bucking against Wilson in any way he could, struggling against the rough, jagged fingers keeping him in the water. His lungs were seizing, his eyes unseeing as his occipital lobe gave up on him, but the throb in his thigh was gone and the hate for Wilson subsided. In the tub, kicking and gasping as he thrashed blindly, there was no thinking, no analysis of words, of whether he was going to leave or how much his next insult would hurt. There was just his life and Wilson’s hands and he felt so helpless.
Only when House started stilling, his resistance turning sluggish, did Wilson pull his limp, drenched head out of the tub and toss him onto dry land. The tiles were cold against his hands, and House doubled over, hacking out generous splashes of water. Wilson watched as his abdomen convulsed around its cargo, as his ribs pistoned up and down in a desperate plea for oxygen, as he wheezed and heaved and dripped onto the cold tiles, his bad leg trembling yet entirely forgotten. Nothing mattered more than getting air and spitting the water out, and when House regained his blurry, tear-stained vision and looked up at him, he realised that Wilson could always throw him back in, could do it right now before he even had the chance to recover.
So he shook his head, choked out the last spurts of water and begged him.
“P—plea, Wil—hcck! I—sorr—I!”
Wilson hardly even scoffed before dragging the sopping, sobbing man off the floor. His fingers caged around his wrist, tight and hard, pulling him out of the bathroom and down the hall, towards the green oak door and the winter beyond. He didn’t pause to help House up when he tripped, or when his bad leg gave out and he crashed to the floor, because he didn’t need to. His fingers never left House’s skin and he dragged, pulling and yanking regardless of the howling, the desperate friction as House tried to dig his heel in, tried to anchor himself to a wall or a doorframe, anything to stop Wilson’s relentless dragging of his body out into the cold where he knew he’d freeze.
“K—cca—no, Wil!” He yelled, tears burning down his face as Wilson flung the front door open and the cold instantly bit through his soggy, thin shirt. House hooked the foot of his good leg against the doorframe, impeding Wilson’s ceaseless tugging right at the threshold of snow and wood. “Pllleee, I—I’ll do—I—”
Huffing once, the thing a curt sound, Wilson yanked harshly and dislodged House’s foot with a sharp crack, and the man screamed. Glancing around, Wilson quickly checked whether any of the neighbours were around, but it was 11 am on a Saturday and they all had better places to be. That didn’t stop House’s wailing as Wilson dragged his limp body through the snow towards his Volvo, the garbled, indecipherable string of pleas eventually being cut off by the chattering of teeth and a small, continuous whine in the back of House’s throat. It was a high-pitched thing, something like a bat’s echolocation, and Wilson smiled as it grew louder, the sound borne of a plea for mercy when words wouldn’t come.
He released House’s wrist, plunging him completely into the snow by his car as he retrieved his car keys. Shivering at his feet, House was still refusing, pulling at his pant leg in a silent request. Covered in snow, he looked beautiful, the water in his shirt and on his skin crystalizing into pure ice, the little crystals embedded in his skin as the man shook violently. His bad leg was thrumming too, and House desperately tried to dig his heels into the snow to move away from the car, but his bare feet had no leverage and he slipped, the cold biting into his body on all sides as he stayed glued to the floor by Wilson’s side like a dog.
When the car door opened, Wilson grabbed House by the scruff of his neck and shoved him into the back seat, holding him there for a moment before thinking better of it and dropping him onto the cabin floor, forcing his bad leg to fold awkwardly and adding another reedy, keening sound to the winter melody. Then, he slammed it shut and slid into the driver’s seat, starting the engine without turning on the heating.
As Wilson pulled away from the apartment and onto the road, House started up again, and Wilson could hear his limbs trembling against the padded floor, “Ttturn, Wil—don’t! I don—hah—cccol…”
“What was that?”
He heard the hitch in House’s throat, the sob wracking his quivering, cold, freezing form. “Pleassss—plea, Wil! Go bacccck!”
“I thought you wanted me to hit you,” Wilson accused.
There was some rough rustling as House shook his head against the floor. “Nnnot—not outssside!”
“Oh,” Wilson hummed. “My bad. I must’ve misunderstood.” He eased up on the gas, letting the car slow down gradually, and House exhaled shakily into the cold car. “All you wanted was a punch in your safe little home, then a nice warm bath and a chance to feel all superior while I drowned in regret.”
“Hhhuh—no… Wil—”
“A punch isn’t enough for you. If you want to hurt, you’ll need something more permanent.”
“Nnn!” House gasped, his arms moving uselessly in the direction of Wilson’s voice. “N—Wils—no!”
The Volvo sped down the streets, whipping past apartment complexes, suburban houses, and rolling onto the highway for a moment before cruising out into an empty road, not that House could see or even begin to take note. He was too busy pleading into the ground, his tremors having gradually turned more violent as the surrounding temperature plummeted due to the lack of, well, anything at all. Wilson was feeling rather snug in his thick fur-lined coat as he took a turn off the smooth asphalt and onto a winding dirt road, the bumpy surface jolting House around and earning strained yelps from his overworked mouth.
The road seemed to lead nowhere, with spiky trees blocking out the late morning light, and as he drove deeper into the woods, the evergreen foilage grew thicker, plunging the car and its contents into shadows and cooling the temperature down even further. House turned his head, catching sight of the thick verdant overhang through the window before stuttering, “W—wha d’you want, W—Wil, I’ll give i, it… to yyyou!”
“D… don’t…” he muttered, a thick sob soaking into the clean, fresh carpet as the Volvo slowed to a stop. He lifted his head off the floor, the effort straining his spasming muscles, when Wilson slid out of his seat and exited the car. In less than three seconds, the rear passenger door was flung open and swirling trails of snow were pouring into the cabin. House instantly shrieked and threw his body in the opposite direction, but Wilson grabbed the ankle of his bad leg and yanked his flailing form out of the car, letting the man writhe and cry in the forest’s pristine white.
The snow was thicker here, and Wilson slammed the car door shut before walking back over to the driver’s seat and sliding back in. Terrified, House called out, thrashing in his spot on the ground, “Nooo! D—donnn’t leav—!”
House heaved himself onto his chest, rolling through the stinging cold just so he could splay his fingers against the sleek, unforgiving metal door. He reached up as far as he could, but he couldn’t reach the door handle without getting onto his knees. Flexing his good leg, he cried out when the muscle there screamed in protest, the flesh there having long since given in to the cold. “Please—p, please, Wils—on! Pleassse!” He begged, slamming his stiff palms against the car door as the snow descended in thick sheets, wrapping around his body, their lifeless tendrils snaking around his ribs and his legs, promising to envelope him in a lover’s hold.
Wilson hummed, enjoying the weak thuds against the car’s metal frame as he cranked up the heating inside. He had opened the windows slightly, just enough such that he could hear House’s panicked begging in that broken, gasping voice. Only when the man quietened down did Wilson slide back out and walk over to where he was curled up into a ball on the icy floor. Toeing his thighs apart with his boot, Wilson’s pupils dilated when House groaned at the contact but was powerless to stop it. He shoved harder, flipping House back onto his back, and rested the ball of his foot right above his infarction site.
“I—ow! Ghh—get offf!” But Wilson didn’t, instead digging in deeper and watching with wide, greedy eyes as House’s back arched violently, his throat choking on a silent scream as the feeling returned to his frozen thigh.
When he removed his foot, House collapsed back into the snow, his respirations erratic as palpitations from how his chest bounced between deflation and hyperinflation. His forehead was damp with sweat, though not for long as it froze in the subzero temperature, sliding off his face into the ground below. Wilson watched him regain his composure for a moment before yanking the man, manhandling him into a standing position before forcing him forwards, to a huge pile of snow that already had him spiralling into the depths of sorrow.
“N—no,” he shook his head frantically, but Wilson just shoved him forward, ever forward until he was leaning over his grave and Wilson let go.
“Fff—fuck! FUCK, WILSSS—!”
Crashing into the snow, he yelled hoarsely into the white cocoon, the stiffness immediately ascending from his palms into his arms. Weak and limp and shuddering, he couldn’t even push himself upright anymore, only being able to lie face-down in the pile of ice, revealing his back, his spine, and every tremor in his body to the monster who put him here. And the monster looked on ravenously, eyes darting over the length of House’s exposed body before the sight alone failed to sustain him and his hands reached around House’s waist.
The man squirmed, canting his hips away from Wilson’s gloved fingers, but the added warmth made him shudder in relief. When Wilson didn’t move any further, just rested those columns of heat against his skin, the warmth bleeding through his thick woolen gloves, through his thin shirt, it tasted so much like salvation. Yielding, House leaned into the touch, arching his back to press his hips flush against Wilson’s palms, inviting him to get closer, to press more of that heat against him, to quell House’s manic shivering.
And Wilson supplied readily, pressing himself against House’s ass and groaning at the contact. House felt his erection and at first, he experienced a wave of flattery because even while dying in some cold, unknown forest, Wilson still found him attractive. Then, he remembered why he was dying and he flinched at the thought of Wilson getting off to this. But the heat was undeniable and he was freezing, toes curling like dead shrimp where they were rotting away against the hard ice, so he grinded up against Wilson and hoped that he’d bring him back to the car.
But Wilson just tugged his belt off, followed by his pants, and House hadn’t even noticed until the cold hit his bare skin and all the heat Wilson had given to him was instantly relinquished. He made a pitiful sound as Wilson unbuttoned his shirt and dragged the fabric off his shoulders, leaving the thin, dark grey fabric bunched around his arms like some sort of restraint. The cold was sinking in hard now, and House could feel his shivering halt, which could only mean that his body was actually giving up.
He’d really die here.
“W—” he gasped, a hot tear instantly cooling to ice at the crease of his eye as Wilson tugged his boxers down and exposed him entirely.
Then, Wilson pulled away, taking two loud steps in the ice, the crunch of his heavy, expensive boots too loud in the secluded forest. House wanted to glance at him, to look over his shoulder and scowl at the man who had just stripped him then proceeded to walk away, wanted to spit “Just get on with it already” but his body was rigid and the snowy forest was settling into a slushy blur. His fingers twitched, but House couldn’t see if they actually moved or if they were frozen dead just like his toes.
Wilson took two more steps. Crunch, crunch, and he swung the rear passenger door open, blessed, divine heat immediately pouring out and House gravitated towards it, groaning in want even as his body remained paralyzed in the ice.
“You want it?”
House’s breath hitched, his good thigh twitching slightly as a speck of that warmth reached his skin. “Yyye—ple—mmm!” He ended the plea with a whine, the tremors having started up again, but that was a good thing. He wasn’t on the brink of death anymore, he wouldn’t die, he wasn’t turning into Wilson’s necrophilia doll today. He just needed to get into the car, to get Wilson to help him into that tantalizing warmth, and he whined again, high and loud and as wet as his frozen mouth could go because he had seen how Wilson reacted to that sound.
“Then crawl.”
“I—can’t, Wils, I can’t wwwalk!”
“Then you can freeze for a little longer.”
“Ple—” he cut himself off, struggling to move his limbs. His good leg stumbled, holding his hips five milimeters above the snow for a second before giving in and sending him back into the thick, soft ice that offered no give for weak limbs. “Please, Wilssson, please, I want—I want i, it so baaad!”
“Then get up. I’m not helping you. I’ve given you enough help.”
“I nnneed, pleaaa—Wils, I need you!” House sobbed, his arms trembling as he forced them to move. When all that yielded was his arms sliding in the grainy snow, he started begging again because he realised that that was all he could do, “I’ll do annnything, an—anyt—s, so please, plea—!”
“I asked you to crawl, not talk.”
Defeated, House mumbled apologies into the snow caressing his face, his torso flinching when Wilson slammed the car door shut and plunged him back into the pure winter hell. His fear spiked, but so did his hate, and with nothing to distract him from the thoughts in his head, he let his mind run down train tracks that were still in commission. The sick bastard, acting all sweet and tender at home when what he really wanted to do was play with his broken body, to push him to his limit and be the one to bring him back into safe territory. The fucker wanted to mould his entire reality with him as the center, the saviour, the provider. He just wanted to show House how much he depended on him, how worthless he was when Wilson, if Wilson decided to call it quits one day.
He couldn’t live without him, and he knew, and he wished that it wasn’t true. He wished that Wilson wouldn’t rip it out of him and display the moist, grotesque innards on the clean slate of snow. He hoped the man still saw something in him worth saving, worth holding close, because if even Wilson couldn’t love him anymore…
He really belonged with the ghouls.
He had something more to add on, but it was getting hard to think, the frostbite settling in and the pain grinding into his bones. It settled quickly, snapping at his joints like piranhas digging serrated fangs into his tendons, and he let out a shrill scream, the purpose of it only to make Wilson know what he was doing to him. At this point, suffering in silence was an idiot’s game.
“Screaming just for me?” Wilson clocked him instantly, and House sank into the snow in shame, as if being stripped bare in the freezing cold wasn’t already a humiliation overdose. Stepping towards him slowly, Wilson’s gloved fingers grazed House’s clammy jaw and he immediately leaned into the touch. When Wilson tilted his head up, House met his gaze and let his eyes water over, maintaining eye contact with Wilson throughout the manoeuvre as the man sighed a hot plume of air over where his tears beaded into ice.
And when Wilson’s other hand settled in his hair, he nuzzled into it, shoving his head forward and up, arching his neck to push his skull harder into the warmth of those snobbish branded gloves. “God,” Wilson murmured reverently, the hand on his jaw dragging down towards his throat and enveloping the pale stretch of it greedily. “House…” he remarked offhandedly, eyes going half-lidded as he flipped House onto his back, gaze immediately locking onto where House’s nipples were hard and flushed from being pressed into the snow.
“Hahhvvv—” House groaned, his arms shaking as he forced them up and around Wilson’s shoulders as the man leaned over him and licked hot, jittering stripes over his nipples. Once his arms wrapped around Wilson, House dragged him in closer, forcing his mouth against that sensitive spot as he blindly sought warmth. And when Wilson’s teeth clamped around his swollen nipple, he moaned, arching into it and shoving his upper body harder against Wilson, revelling in the heat of his mouth on his skin.
Wilson drank it in, leaning back just to hear House’s whine and feel him pulling him back in. His eyes flicked up to drink in the fluttering of his lashes as he rolled the frozen, quivering thing between his teeth. He was rewarded with another groan and friction down below as House’s good leg found its footing. The poor thing trembled, straining with the effort of hoisting House’s hips up flush against Wilson’s pelvis, and Wilson abandoned his chest to sip the winter’s essence from his mouth.
“So good,” he praised into his icy cold slick, so different from the heat he was used to, from the clashing and the fight that House would put into his kisses. Now, his mouth hung open and he took Wilson’s ministrations meekly, his tongue limp as Wilson shoved it up so he could swipe at that moist strip under House’s tongue. House jerked when he licked there, his mouth closing for a moment before he let it fall open again, and the surrender felt like gold beneath his fingers; soft, relenting and heavenly.
But when Wilson reached down around House’s waist, then between his thighs, and found that he was entirely soft, he pulled away, ignoring House’s protest to stare at the lack of arousal between his thighs. Blinking rapidly, House followed Wilson’s gaze, resting on his own anatomy before his eyes flicked back up to Wilson’s inscrutable gaze.
“S—sorry! Wils—I, I’m sorry! Dunnno why, please—feels gooddd!” He sobbed, reaching a trembling hand out towards Wilson, his fingers grazing the edges of his coat before the limb gave up and fell back onto the snow. “I—I, don’t stop, don—come back!”
“You’re acting,” Wilson stated, tilting his head a little, daring House to refute the truth. “You just want the heat. You don’t want me.”
“I—I’m…” House shook his head but offered nothing more, and that might have just cemented his fate. But then, he bit out a retort, something Wilson hadn’t thought he was still capable of, “You a—already know, and y, you still did it.”
Wilson scoffed and glanced away, the action so confusing to House, simultaneously indicating superiority and embarrassment. Then, the man shook his head and muttered, “How could I not?”
“This wasnnn’t my f—fault!” House snapped, the cold and the heat be damned. Well, only temporarily since Wilson had granted him a sweet reprieve and his core temperature had been rising steadily, bringing the normal physiological response of shivering back into his body. It made speaking much harder, but then again, the threat of death no longer loomed like a dagger at the nape of his neck.
“You asked—”
“N, now I’m asking for… car.”
“You can’t just switch up—”
“And y—you cccan? Hyp—”
“Do I have to kill you to shut you up?”
“Maybe!”
“Fine!” Wilson yelled back, and House immediately panicked, devolving back into his frantic begging as his limbs groggily let him drag himself out of the snow. His right leg was completely frozen, though, and his heart clenched at that, the fear of permanent amputation flashing in front of him before he continued dragging his body forward towards Wilson’s steely gaze.
“’m—’m crawling… I… Wils,” he panted, tugging himself towards the black, polished shape of Wilson’s boots with his hands and his good leg. Trembling, frigid, House’s good leg buckled and he yelped, but he didn’t give up, using his two arms to close the remaining distance between his head and Wilson’s shiny, thick boot. When he reached, he looked up at the man, latching his fingers onto his shin and practically crawling up his body. He was painfully aware of how close his head was to Wilson’s groin, and he knew that Wilson still felt that way, and he was entirely willing to use that to his advantage.
But the man just stared down at him before smirking. “Now, I’m asking for a performance.”
“Wh—”
“Since you can switch up, I thought it’d only be fair for me to change the requirements,” Wilson explained, lacing his fingers in House’s hair as he watched the dread sink into his adorable face. “Plus, I sort of helped you back there, didn’t I?”
“No, nnno, please! Wils… just let me i, in and I’ll—whatever, I will!”
Wilson looked him over, eyes resting on his cyanotic lips, on the quiver in his good thigh, the lack of movement in his bad one. Then, the winces he made when he moved his fingers, the red-rimmed eyes speckled with ice around the edges. He thought about how they’d melt into moist ravines in the car, about how he’d cling to him even in the heat, about how he’d press blissful gratitude into his neck as he took him, about how he’d get hard and leak and thank him for giving him what he needed.
“You make a compelling argument.”