Archive of Our Own

Title: Not Stupid
Series: House MD
Relationship: Greg House/James Wilson
Rating: Adult
Word Count: 5740
Beta: dogpoet

House pushed open the door to the hospital and yawned as he entered the lobby, gaining a disapproving look from a passing ER doctor. He gave his widest, toothiest grin, and the disapproval morphed into something vaguely like fear as the other man hurried on his way.

House limped toward the elevator. He was a few feet away when the doors opened, and he caught a glimpse of a figure in killer heels and a pristine white coat over an impressively low-cut top. He swung back around the other way and started moving as fast as he was able in the opposite direction.

“House!” came the strident cry after him.

He grimaced and briefly considered whether he could move any more quickly than he already was before reluctantly concluding he wasn’t going to be able to outrun her. He stopped and turned around.

“Dr. Cuddy,” he said, his eyes moving southwards as she approached. “Aren’t we looking perky this morning?” he addressed the hospital administrator’s chest.

Cuddy narrowed her eyes at him and held up a file.

“Uh-uh, far too early,” House told her.

“It’s nearly midday,” she retorted and slapped him in the chest with the file. “You take this case or you do at least four of the 37.5 hours of clinic duty you owe me.”

House rolled his eyes but took the file. He opened it and glanced at the first page. Minor contusions, concussion, hairline skull fracture. He looked at Cuddy and gave a snort of laughter as he made to hand it back to her.

“Yeah, right, good one. Who knew you were a secret comic genius? Gilbert Gottfried’s got nothing on you.”

“I’m not joking, House,” she folded her arms across her chest, ignoring the held out sheaf of paperwork.

House stared at her for a moment longer then pointedly dropped the file on the floor. “Oops,” he said, and started to move back toward the elevator.

“She has precognition,” Cuddy called after him in a singsong tone.

House paused and turned slowly on the spot. “Do I look like a psychiatrist to you?”

Cuddy bent and picked up the file off the floor and held it out again, raising her eyebrows but saying nothing.

House limped over and fixed her with a stare. “Why haven’t you gotten her a psych referral?” he asked. Cuddy was many things, but gullible wasn’t one of them, and neither was stupid.

“The patient has a traumatic head injury with loss of consciousness. She could have an epidural hematoma and she needs a CT scan. Now.”

House nodded impatiently. It was a standard diagnostic procedure, to be followed by surgery to relieve the pressure of the bleeding in her head if there was a hematoma. Chances were she’d be fine.

“But she’s refusing treatment,” Cuddy continued.

“Why?”

“Says she ‘saw’ you in a vision and you need to be her doctor.”

House looked from Cuddy, to the file, and back to Cuddy again, trying his best to feign indifference. “No clinic duty for at least a week,” he tried.

“No deal,” the administrator said sweetly.

House couldn’t stop his eyes flicking to the file again. Dammit, the woman knew him too well. He could never pass up the chance to mock someone who’d risk death for the sake of a fairytale. This was almost as good getting a bible-thumper in his clutches. He reached out and snatched the paperwork, his eyes daring her to make a comment.

Cuddy gave him a smug smile and turned on her well-shod heel.

“I’d lay off the donuts if I were you,” he yelled at her retreating behind.

“Good morning, children,” House chorused as he entered the conference room where Cameron was studiously doing his paperwork, her reading glasses perched on her nose, while Chase filled in a Sudoku grid and Foreman appeared to be doing absolutely nothing.

“It’s afternoon,” Chase looked up.

“Semantics,” House waved away the comment, then looked at his watch, “Oh, you’re right,” he said in an exaggeratedly surprised tone. “Had to happen sometime, I suppose.” He dropped the file on the table. “Got a case.” He turned back toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Cameron called after him as Foreman reached out to pick up the file.

House looked back over his shoulder. “As our oh-so-good-looking Antipodean friend correctly pointed out,” he said, “it’s afternoon already. And I haven’t had lunch. Go take the patient’s history, there’s a pasta salad in the doctors’ lounge with my name on it.”

The door closed behind him, and he turned to push it open again, popping his head through to address his team. “Oh, and tell her I’ve agreed to treat her, and she needs a CT scan right now,” he said. “Once you’ve ruled out epidural hematoma, get back here.”

He limped down the corridor toward the lounge as his fellow doctors headed off toward the patient’s room.

As expected, there was indeed a tub of pasta salad in the refrigerator in the lounge. The post-it note on the lid of the container read ‘property of James Wilson NOT Gregory House’. House smirked as he plucked the note off, crumpled it up and threw it in the bin. “You are so lame, Jimmy,” he said to himself, and settled in on the couch to enjoy his food, resting his cane beside him.

He’d just swallowed the last forkful when the door opened. House settled his hands contentedly across his full stomach and leaned his head against the back of the couch, closing his eyes as he listened to the footsteps crossing the room to the refrigerator. The door opened and closed, more steps, then a rustling sound as someone settled on the couch next to him.

House opened one eye and turned his head slightly. Wilson ignored him as he shovelled up a forkful of pasta.

House opened his eyes fully and sat up. He frowned over at his friend, who was chewing slowly as he read the open file on his lap.

Suddenly a hand shot out and slapped him on the forehead.

“Wha…” House jumped in shock, then reached up and pulled off the post-it note hanging over one of his eyes.

‘I told you I’d make you some too,’ he read. A genuine laugh burst out of him before he could stop it. Wilson cocked an eyebrow at him and smiled.

“Idiot,” House accused.

“Thief,” Wilson shot back, good naturedly.

House planted his cane on the floor and levered himself up off the sofa. “Got a case,” he said.

Wilson nodded. He had back-to-back appointments that afternoon. Hopefully, if House was tied up with his own patient, he’d leave Wilson alone to get on with his work. “I’ll leave your dinner out for you later,” he said, hoping House would take that as a hint.

“I’ll wash up,” House said.

Wilson snorted. “No, you won’t.”

“No, I won’t,” House agreed.

Wilson took another mouthful of pasta and carried on reading the file as House clattered through the door.

“So, what’s happening dudes?” House said as he swung through the conference room doors.

The ducklings had scattered notes across the table, the centerpiece of which was a half-drunk pot of coffee. Foreman was leaning back in his chair, tapping a pen against his lips as he pondered something or other, while Chase and Cameron were frowning over the pieces of paper.

“Twenty-five-year old female, with cuts, bruises, a hairline skull fracture, and no sign of an epidural hematoma,” Cameron answered.

House rolled his eyes. “Boring,” he pronounced and pointed at Foreman. “You, go.”

Foreman glared his boss. “That’s all there is,” he said. “No underlying infection, no virus, no indicator of anything that can’t be explained by the nosedive she took in front of a car before she ended up here,” he paused. “It might help if you told us what we’re supposed to be looking for,” he added, barely hiding his frustration.

“And spoil all the fun?” House said gleefully, limping towards his white board.

“She says she has precognition,” Chase added, making quote marks in the air around the final word.

“There we go!” House exclaimed. “Score one for the pretty Aussie with the great hair.” He waggled a finger at Foreman. “Watch and learn.”

“Oh, for…the crazy isn’t medical,” Foreman said impatiently. “According to the friend who came in with her, she’s been having ‘visions’ for a few years. It’s a regular - not to mention paid for - party trick,” he added scornfully.

House pulled the cap off a marker and turned to face his team. “Not medical,” he snorted. “I’d say seeing things is pretty damn medical, especially when combined with keeling over in front of a car, before it hit you, wouldn’t you?” he pointed at Chase.

“Um, yeah?” Chase offered.

House glared at him. For someone with advanced surgical degrees and a place on the team of the country’s most revered diagnostician, Chase could be remarkably obtuse when he wanted to be. Not to mention a total ass-kisser.

“Care to expand on that?” House said with exaggerated politeness. “Or are we going down the ‘gift from God’ route?”

“Brain tumor?” Chase offered, the Australian twang in his voice making the end of the suggestion into a question.

“Brain tumor,” House repeated, pointedly not scribbling the words on the board. “Any advance on brain tumor?”

“I think we might have spotted a tumor on the CT scan,” Foreman scoffed. “Drugs or alcohol are more likely. If she’s even really seeing things, that is,” he muttered.

“She’s not a drunk or a druggie,” Cameron chipped in. “It could be focal epilepsy, or Parkinson’s. Or some kind of cancer other than a brain tumor.”

“Schizophrenia?” Chase put in.

“Okay, better,” House interrupted the flow of ideas. “You two go test her for those,” he waved the marker in the direction of Cameron and Chase. “And you,” he turned his attention to Foreman. “Use your ill-gotten skills from the ‘hood and go break into her home.”

The ducklings got to their feet, Foreman throwing another glare in his boss’s direction, only to be met by a wolfish grin.

“And do a tox screen,” House yelled at the retreating backs. “Just because Saint Cameron thinks the girl looks too nice to be a drunk or a druggie, doesn’t mean she isn’t. Everybody lies, you know,” he added for good measure.

He poured himself a cup of coffee and wandered into his office to sit behind the desk. He stretched out his legs, rubbing his right thigh with a grimace, and reached into his pocket for his Vicodin. He popped a pill and picked up his Gameboy. He needed to think.

James Wilson reached over his desk to pat his patient’s arm reassuringly. The news he’d just given her wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but it could have been worse. The treatment would be gruelling but at least she had a good chance of surviving it.

She gave him a wan smile. “Thank you, Dr. Wilson, I…” she started, only to be interrupted by a loud banging on the door leading to the balcony outside the office.

Wilson closed his eyes briefly. He should have known he wasn’t going to get through the afternoon without interruption. He looked over at the scruffy figure standing outside the glass door, cane poised to rap on the glass again.

“Um, excuse me,” Wilson said, giving the startled woman’s arm another pat.

He got up and strode over to the door, wrenching it open a crack. “What?” he hissed, gesturing behind him. “I’m with a patient here.”

House peered over Wilson’s shoulder. “She doesn’t look like she’s dying right now,” he observed, loudly.

“House!” Wilson yelped, this time pushing the diagnostician away from the door and stepping through, throwing an apologetic look at his patient before pulling the door shut behind him. “What do you want?” he demanded.

“Are you coming out to play?” House said, widening his bright blue eyes and pulling his best innocent little boy face.

Wilson brushed a hand wearily across his eyes. “House…” he began again, this time warningly.

“Jimmy…” House mimicked. “Oh, fine,” he continued at Wilson’s exasperated look. “I need a consult. Patient says she has precognition, could be cancer. That’s your thing, right?” he added in a cheerily hopeful tone.

Wilson shook his head despairingly. “You think I could finish seeing my own patient first?”

“Well, of course,” House said reasonably, as if he hadn’t just barged in on a private patient meeting. “Dunno what you’re doing out here with some cripple in the first place when you should be in there. Caring.” He made a shooing motion. “Go on then,” he added.

Wilson stared at him for a moment, then turned back towards his office, muttering under his breath.

House grinned at the retreating back before hopping over the barrier that separated their balconies with an ease surprising in someone with only one good leg. He whistled as he went back in to his own office. Harassing Wilson always improved his mood.

“Have you even been to see her?” Wilson demanded, hands on his hips in his ‘exasperated by House’ pose.

“Have I been to see her?” House scoffed. “Dr. Wilson, I ask you, would I attempt to diagnose a patient without even seeing her?”

“He hasn’t been to see her,” Foreman chipped in from his seat at the conference room table.

“Tattletale,” House glared at Foreman, who’d been even more insufferable than he generally was since his search of the patient’s house had turned up the nothing he’d thought it would.

“House…”

“What?” House turned back towards Wilson.

“Go see the patient,” the younger doctor told him. “She may surprise you.”

“Don’t like surprises,” House grumbled.

“Come on,” Wilson said, moving towards the door. “I’ll introduce you.”

“Oh, all right,” House followed. Not that he was going to admit it, but he had always had every intention of meeting this woman. If only to scoff at her soothsaying. “If it’ll stop your whining,” he said out loud.

“I don’t whine, I cajole,” Wilson retorted as they walked down the corridor. “Just because you’re congenitally incapable of being polite to anyone, doesn’t mean the rest of us should follow suit.”

“What’s so special about this patient, anyway? Why are you still hanging around now you’ve proved she’s not dying of cancer?”

He stopped dead and turned to face his companion. “Tell me you have not slept with her already?” he demanded.

“What?” Wilson spluttered. “No! Of course I haven’t. Don’t be ridiculous. I only just met her.”

House stared at him suspiciously for a moment, then relaxed. “Ah, yes,” he accepted. “The famous Wilson seduction technique takes a little time.”

He carried on walking. Wilson shook his head as he pondered where that statement had come from, then was forced into a slightly unseemly jog to catch up with his friend, who could be amazingly speedy when the mood took him.

“So what is it, then?” House asked as Wilson drew up beside him.

Wilson shrugged. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “She’s just, kind of…sweet.”

House stopped again.

“What now?” Wilson questioned, exasperation seeping into his voice.

“You want me to meet a patient because she’s sweet?” House said incredulously. “Have you even met me?”

“You like me,” Wilson pointed out. “And people are always telling me I’m sweet.”

“Only after you’ve seduced them,” House snorted, “And then only because they don’t know you’re really a mass of seething neuroses masquerading as a nice little boy wonder oncologist.”

“Ah, but I don’t claim to see into the future, Oh Great Diagnostic One. Admit it, you’re curious. No way would you have come with me this easily if you didn’t really want to meet her.”

“Fine,” House said moodily, annoyed at how easily Wilson could read him. “I want her to tell me I’m going to meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger and live happily ever after.”

He turned into the patient’s room. “So,” he threw in the direction of the pale looking woman sitting in the bed. “When’s the world going to end?” He gestured to Wilson, who’d followed him into the room. “Jimmy here will need some warning so he can make sure his documents are in order and his ties are polished.”

The woman smiled at him, seemingly genuinely pleased to see him. “Dr. House!” she said. “I knew you’d get around to seeing me eventually.”

“Ah, I see what you did,” House raised his eyebrows at Wilson in mocking amazement. “You see what she did, Wilson? She knew I was coming before I even got here. That’s brilliant!”

He turned back towards the patient. “Aren’t you going to tell me I’m going to meet a tall, dark handsome stranger?” he grinned.

Her smile got wider and she nodded towards Wilson. “You’ve already met him,” she said. “Although,” she added, thoughtfully, “he’s not that tall. But you don’t really mind that, do you?” she finished.

The grin fell from House’s face as he froze on the spot. He abruptly turned and pushed past Wilson as he limped from the room, not saying a word.

Wilson stared after his friend, then whirled around to look at the patient, who shrugged at him, before he turned to stare out the door again. He looked back at the woman and gulped as he pointed to himself, and then after House. “You don’t think…” his voice trailed off. “I mean, we’re not. He’s not…”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “Perhaps you’d better go after him?” she suggested, gently.

“House!” Wilson yelled at the closed door. “I know you’re in there. Open up.”

He’d ended up outside House’s apartment after a search of the hospital had failed to turn up the diagnostician in any of his usual hiding places. A check of the parking lot had confirmed the disappearance of his motorcycle, so Wilson had followed him home.

He lifted his hand to knock again.

“Use your key, you idiot,” came the angry shout from the other side of the door.

“I left it at work,” Wilson yelled back, annoyed with himself. He’d been so busy worrying about House, he’d forgotten to go back to his office to pick up his briefcase, in which was his key to House’s place. “Come on, let me in.”

The door opened to reveal a glowering House. “Will you stop shouting,” he groused. “You’ll upset the neighbors.”

Wilson snorted. “Like you care about the neighbors,” he said. “Last I heard they were talking about getting up a petition to stop you from playing electric guitar in the middle of the night.”

“Helps me relax,” House limped his way across the room to the couch and flopped down, reaching for the remote and switching the TV on.

Wilson walked over and sat next to him. “So,” he began slowly.

“So, what?” House interrupted.

Wilson sighed. “You gonna tell me what that was all about?”

“What what was all about?” House said, closing down as he always did when faced with any queries that might come close to being about his feelings.

“Oh, come on,” Wilson persisted, leaning his forearms on his thighs so he could crane his head around to get a better look at his friend. “You raced out of that room like a bat out of hell, and you didn’t stop until you got back on your home turf. What she said obviously got to you.”

“I just didn’t like her,” House shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “Nothing unusual about that. Now will you shut up and let me watch TV, or better still, go cook us some dinner. I want pancakes.”

“I’m not making you pancakes for dinner,” Wilson told him. “I already made you pancakes for breakfast. And stop deflecting.”

House groaned and rolled his eyes. “Will you just drop it, already? Nothing is wrong. Nothing happened other than I got sick of talking to Miss Loony Tunes and decided to come home.”

Wilson leaned back against the couch. “Okay,” he said. “So, she made a crack about us being gay. It’s not the first time. In fact, it’s normally you saying stuff like that.” He leaned forward again and frowned as a thought occurred to him. “Actually,” he said slowly. “It’s always you saying it. Ho, ho! That’s it isn’t it? It’s okay when you say it but not when it’s some stranger. She dented your masculine pride!”

House grabbed his cane and jabbed it hard against the floor, leaning on it and levering himself up. He whirled around to glare at Wilson. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” he yelled furiously.

Wilson’s eyes widened as he leaned back, away from the unexpected force of House’s anger.

“Why would you even say something like that?” House raged. “You think a person can’t be masculine just because they’re gay…” he broke off as he seemed to realise what he was saying.

Wilson gawped at him. “I…what?” he managed to get out. “But, you’re…not. I mean, you’re not. Are you? You never said anything!”

House fixed him with a look that, on anyone else, Wilson might classify as sorrowful.

“Do you blame me?” House asked quietly before turning away and moving off towards his bedroom.

Wilson stared after him for a long moment, then closed his eyes and lowered his head into his hands. That had not gone well.

House was avoiding him. He’d left the apartment before Wilson had woken up on the couch, which was unheard of, and he hadn’t shown his face since.

Wilson had once again spent a good portion of the time when he should have been catching up on paperwork, searching the nooks and crannies of Princeton-Plainsboro for signs of his best friend. A fair part of the rest of his time, he spent mentally kicking himself for sticking his foot in it the way he had. Then, finally, he got angry at House.

He hadn’t meant it, for god’s sake. How the hell could House think he was homophobic? He blow dried his hair, wore a pocket protector and made no secret of his adoration for musical theatre. And he never told House off for all the gay jokes. But when he made one comment back, House acted like he’d just shot his mother or something. It was ridiculous.

It was no good, he decided, after checking everywhere he’d already checked just one more time; if House didn’t want to be found, House didn’t want to be found. Wilson went looking for the diagnostics team instead. They were the most likely to know where House might be.

He found them in the lab, running tests. House had apparently barked at them for being stupid, then ordered them to run every test under the sun to try to uncover the reason for their patient’s ‘delusions’.

“There’s nothing wrong with her, if you ask me, aside from being observant and a good guesser,” Chase grumbled as he peered into a microscope. “But you know what House is like when he’s got a bee in his bonnet about something.”

Next to him, Cameron shrugged. “Yeah, and he’s usually right,” she pointed out.

“He’s always right,” Chase acknowledged with a resigned sigh. “Eventually. He’s a genius. That doesn’t make it less irritating.”

“You know where he went?” Wilson persisted, cutting in to the usual byplay.

“Nope,” Foreman answered, not very helpfully.

“Have you tried Coma Guy’s room?” Cameron asked.

“Or the morgue?” That was Chase.

Wilson sighed. “First places I looked.”

“You two have a lovers’ tiff?” Foreman put in.

Wilson glared at him. “What if we did?” he demanded, defensively.

Foreman stared at him, taken aback.

“Sorry, sorry,” Wilson said, holding up his hands as he backed towards the doorway. “I’m a little stressed,” he added.

The three ducklings stared at the door as it closed behind him.

“What was that all about?” Chase said into the silence.

Cameron shrugged. “No idea. You know what those two are like.”

Outside the lab, Wilson made an effort to get a grip on himself and headed off toward the clinic. House obviously really didn’t want to be found. He’d just have to wait and corner him at home, which, on reflection, was probably better than trying to have this particular conversation at work.

In the meantime, he might as well get a few clinic hours under his belt. He had a vague idea that if he did extra hours, it might act as a counterweight to House’s continuing efforts to do as few as he could, not that Cuddy seemed to see it that way.

By the time Wilson got home, he was determined to make House listen to him, however much the other doctor tried to avoid talking about it.

It had been a long day. For once, even Wilson’s patience had been tried to the limit by the patients in the clinic. Usually, he was sympathy itself but, today, he could see where House was coming from. There were some really, really stupid people out there and it seemed as if every one of them had turned up in his exam room that afternoon.

He put his key in the door. At least that was one thing that had worked out better for him today than yesterday, he mused to himself. It wasn’t much, but it was something. He took a deep breath and braced himself for the storm.

“House,” he called as he entered the apartment. “You here?”

“Where else would I be?” came the snarky response from the general vicinity of the kitchen. “Out jogging?”

Wilson pulled a face as he shrugged off his coat and put his briefcase on the floor next to the couch. He made his way toward the sound of the voice and leaned against the kitchen doorframe, reaching up to run his fingers through his hair.

“Hey,” he tried again. House was doing the dishes. That, in itself, was an aberration in behavior that would prompt Wilson to worry, even if he hadn’t been worried already.

“We need to talk, House.”

“No,” House replied, determinedly keeping his gaze on the dishes in the sink. “You need to talk. I’m fine without it.”

Wilson loosened his tie and sighed. “House, I didn’t mean anything by it. You joke about it all the time. That’s all it was, a joke. If you’d told me you were, um, that way inclined, then I never would have said it.”

House turned to look at him, raising his eyebrows. “That way inclined?” he echoed. He looked around the kitchen in mock panic. “Dear god,” he exclaimed, waving his arms in the air, sending soapsuds flying. “Have we fallen into the 1950s through some sort of time vortex?”

“Will you shut the fuck up,” Wilson yelled, the frustrations of the past two days leading to the end of his rope. “Just stop it!”

“Stop it?” House shouted back. “You’re the one who started it, you moron! I never wanted you to know in the first place.”

“That’s just, that’s just…ridiculous!” Wilson spluttered, moving forwards so he was shouting right into House’s furious face. “You’re the moron. How the hell can you think it makes a difference to me if you’re straight or gay or anything in between? You, you…idiot! I don’t care, okay?!”

House glared at him, their noses inches apart.

“Oh for god’s sake,” Wilson groaned, then grabbed House’s face and kissed him. “See?” he said. “Here’s me. Not caring.”

House’s eyes widened as he reached up to touch his mouth with his fingertips. “Uh,” he stared at Wilson. “Did you just kiss me?”

“Yes,” Wilson drew himself up to his full height, planted his hands on his hips and glared at him. “Now, who’s homophobic, huh?” he challenged.

“Wilson,” House started laughing. “You kissed me.”

Wilson stared at his feet, suddenly self-conscious as the bravado of the moment before deserted him. “Yeah, um, maybe I might be a little that way inclined myself,” he said sheepishly.

“Oh, my god,” House was guffawing now. “You are unbelievable. I can’t believe how endlessly entertaining you really are.”

Wilson looked up from his feet. “It’s not funny!” he let out. “I’ve been worried all day about this. I even did some of your clinic hours. And I was unforgivably rude to this poor guy who thought he was dying of indigestion.”

House’s laughter increased until he was hiccupping with the effort to control himself.

“Stop it!” Wilson tried, his voice trembling with suppressed laughter, despite his best efforts. He reached to scoop some soapsuds out of the sink, and flicked them in House’s face.

“Hey!” House exclaimed and reached for his own handful of suds.

Wilson tried to back away as House reached for his face, and his feet slipped out from under him on the wet floor. House grabbed at him and before he knew it, he was flat on his back, the breath knocked out of him, covered in six-feet plus of diagnostician.

House looked down at him, suddenly not laughing any more. He swallowed. “So, uh,” he said, sounding uncharacteristically nervous. “You feel like doing more than kissing?”

Wilson stared back, suddenly lost for words, and not just because he didn’t have any breath to form them. He reached up to grasp the back of House’s head, and pulled him down. “Oh, shut up,” he managed to murmur as their lips met for the second time.

House tasted better than you might expect for someone who lived mainly on Vicodin, coffee, canned soup and whatever food he could steal, Wilson mused, as he grew a little light-headed.

House’s tongue darted into his mouth in tiny, questioning moves, as if he were asking if this was really all right. Wilson moved his own tongue to meet the visitor, answering the questions as reassuringly as he could with little caresses of his own.

He ran his hands down House’s back, startling unexpectedly as he reached a tantalizing piece of skin between the retro-rock t-shirt and the scruffy jeans. He drew in a breath around the kissing, and slid his left hand down under the pants and the soft cotton boxers, running his fingers along the crevice of House’s ass before grabbing a buttock.

He was rewarded with a groan that tickled his tongue. “Oh, Jesus Christ,” he said, snatching his hand back so he could use both to push House upwards enough that he could reach down between them.

House snorted. “I thought your people didn’t believe in him?” The words were more than a little breathless.

“Shut up!” Wilson demanded again, and reached for House’s zipper.

House, for once, did as he was told. He stopped talking, then threw his head back and let out a puff of air as his jeans and boxers were pulled down.

Wilson discovered that, despite the snark, House was every bit as hard as he was.

“Oh, Jesus,” he said again, and was rewarded with an uncontrolled shiver from the body above his.

Wilson reached to the fastenings on his pants and pushed them and his underwear out of the way before yanking House back down so he was flush against him.

“Oh fuck,” Wilson let out, arching upwards to get more contact. “Greg. Fuck.”

He planted both hands on House’s ass, pulling him as close as possible, his hips starting to move of their own accord.

House’s mouth fixed on his again. Desperately deep, ragged kisses, as their pelvises ground together.

“Shit, House, I can’t, I’m gonna…” Wilson’s words trailed off as his rational mind left him. He thrust upwards again and again.

The little noises House was making in his mouth were driving him nearly as crazy as the friction against his body.

He broke away from the kissing and plastered his face against the side of House’s, moving a hand up to anchor his head in place.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” he chanted. He held on tightly to House as he came, his body convulsing with the power of it.

House drew himself slightly upwards and stared down at Wilson as he moved his hand down to his penis. Wilson looked back up at him, his liquid brown eyes hazy with post-coital lethargy. It only took two jerks of House’s hand before he was coming all over Wilson’s stomach.

Afterwards, House flopped down on the floor beside Wilson and stared up at the ceiling. “That was pretty good,” he commented, once he got his breath back.

“Yeah,” Wilson replied, risking being called a girl by reaching out to grasp House’s hand. “We should do that again,” he added.

House squeezed the hand in his. “Yeah,” he agreed, then groaned as his leg protested. “But maybe not on the kitchen floor,” he added.

“Good morning, oh protégés mine,” House announced, throwing a bag into the middle of the conference room table. “I bring donuts.”

Three startled faces looked up at him as Wilson trailed into the room in his wake.

“Um, thanks?” Chase offered with a wary smile.

Foreman shook his head disbelievingly at his colleague before fixing their boss with a suspicious glare. “House,” he said. “What are you on?”

House waggled his eyebrows. “I’m high on the joy of life,” he said gleefully, resting his hands on the table and leaning over to fix the prickliest member of his team with a challenging stare. “Is that so unusual?”

“It is a bit weird,” Chase chipped in, helping himself to a donut, as Foreman’s eyes narrowed.

“He’s right,” Wilson agreed from behind House. “It is a bit weird.”

“And your fault,” House straightened up as he turned to face his accuser.

“Always,” Wilson agreed amiably, grabbing House’s leather jacket and pulling him in for a peck on the lips. He smiled happily at his best friend, and waved a farewell to the stunned-looking medics around the table.

“See you later,” he called as he left, only just managing to hide his grin at the way Chase dropped his donut into his coffee.

House turned back to his team. “Right,” he said, “Strangely Perceptive Girl - it’s not cancer, Parkinson’s, epilepsy or schizophrenia. Are we actually going with gift from above or have you got something not stupid for me?”