Chapter Text
The whole problem with speculation is—
The problem is.
House has a point. He’d had a point.
it was important, he knows that much. He knows because his mind is telling him it’s important, and when his mind tells him something’s important, well.
It tends to mean there’s something important.
Speculation. House pushes out his lower lip. There’s no use in speculation.
Except that Wilson is smiling.
Really smiling, and house suspects, isn’t sure, but he thinks it might be the first time he’s smiled in months.
Still, that doesn’t mean anything without the evidence to back it up, and it’s not as though House lives with the man. Could just be the hospital making Wilson miserable.
Could just be House. Wouldn’t be all that surprising.
He sneers down at the drink in his hand and shakes the thought away, because House sees the world in absolutes. He doesn’t care for suppositions, and it’s the facts that’re interesting. Nobody cares about the lie you’re telling. They care about why you’re lying in the first place, and what you’ve lied about.
Nothing’s so bland as morally grey, and most people are cowards. They’re too afraid to admit things are either right or wrong.
So, yeah, ok. House looks at the facts.
And the facts are, he’s had at least four, maybe five whiskies, and already the shapes and shadows splattered by the strobe lights are beginning to blur. He holds up his glass and studies the way the liquid swirls as he shifts his hand, aware that he’s not nearly drunk enough to lose count of how many he’s had.
The fact is, he hasn’t been paying attention.
He’s been watching him. Watching Wilson, as the man hangs off a colleague’s shoulders, free arm slung around the waist of one of the less skimpily dressed strippers House had ordered for the party (without consulting him first, of course).
The fact is, Wilson’s eyes are deep and brown and in the soft glow of artificial neons, the colour matches House’s whiskey.
Bright and tinged golden as the light pours through its centre, hits the glass, refracts.
His smile’s wide, brilliant, and House—House isn’t sure what’s making him feel dizzy. Diagnosis? He doesn’t have one yet.
This is Wilson’s Bachelor party.
He’d been adamant he’d never let House plan one again, but then, Wilson hadn’t planned on getting married either.
That’s what he’d been telling House.
It was too soon after Amber, fourth time was never the charm. He just wasn’t ready yet.
Then along she’d come, swanning in, Hannah. Wilson had always been a hopeless case, a romantic.
Hannah bought him flowers, asked him to a ballet. She bakes him plates of homemade cookies and Wilson comes to work smelling like chocolate chips and icing sugar.
House never eats the ones Wilson offers him.
They’re always far too sweet.
House planned this Bachelor party. He’d made sure to think about everything: the food, the drinks, the company.
He hadn’t found it nearly as fun as he’d thought.
He’s not finding this nearly as fun as he should.
He can’t even find it within himself to laugh when Wilson sits down and misses the couch, hauled to his feet by the two women attempting to give him a lap dance.
The fact is, House is miserable. He’s standing alone in the corner of the room, knocking back neat whiskies and wishing he doesn’t have to pretend he’s happy about his best friend’s fourth wedding.
House doesn’t want to think about any weddings. Not if Wilson’s involved. He never wants to see Wilson married again. Doesn’t want to turn up in a suit, deal with the never-ending stream of gormless drivel, social politics. He doesn’t want to nod his head as Wilson walks down the aisle a fourth time, doesn’t want to watch him say “till death do us part” while knowing full well it should only take a week or so for all the cracks to show.
He doesn’t want Wilson to get married.
If he were a speculative man, well, he might start to realise that means something. He’s not though, and it doesn’t, and there’s really no use in any of that.
There are too many problems with speculation, and House is a man who looks to the facts.
It is a fact that Wilson looks beautiful tonight.
House resents him for it.
He tilts back his head, swallows the last of his whiskey. He likes the way it burns his throat, and he can almost ignore the pain in his leg as he limps towards the door. It’s better he pretends to ignore the tug in his chest, and the ache in his stomach when he catches a final glimpse of Wilson, dancing alone in the living room.
Best to pretend the fire he feels is from the whiskey, and nothing to do with the nostalgia he feels for something he’s never had.
*
He only just makes it into the hallway before Wilson bursts out to follow him. House rolls his eyes, but reluctantly turns to face him.
Breathless, Wilson gapes at him, shirt untucked and unbuttoned down to the clavicle. His hair is a dishevelled mess, and he swallows thickly, throwing his hands in a flurrying gesture.
His cheeks are flushed, his lips swollen. House tries not to think too hard about whose spit exactly he’s been swapping with.
He tries not to think too hard about swapping spit with Wilson at all.
“House!” Wilson clearly doesn’t recognise the volume he’s speaking at because he’s practically shouting. Spittle flies to greet House’s cheeks and he blinks, swiping it away with the back of his hand.
“Yes?” House yells back with mock enthusiasm.
“Why—what’re you doing out here?”
House frowns, makes a show of pretending to think and looking about him before jabbing a finger at the elevator behind him. “Someone called me a ride,” he says, “be rude to turn it down. Don’t cha think?”
“But,” Wilson sputters, hands fluttering wildly, “but—House! You’re leaving!”
House nods, pursing his lips. “Am I?”
“Yes!”
“Oh,” House says gravely, “if you insist.”
He punches the elevator button with his cane, and God, he must be drunker than he thought because he misses on the first try. Too drunk to be dealing with an equally inebriated Jimmy Wilson.
“No, no,” Wilson grabs him by the shoulder, spinning him, “that’s not what I—”
He sighs, drops his hands. Shame, House thinks, thought unbidden. Wilson’s hands were warm. Huh. Unbidden and unwelcome.
“Why? Why are you leaving, House?” His features crumple into a half-pout, and he looks so damn defeated, and House almost, almost storms back inside the apartment then and there. Could chalk this whole thing up to some drunken practical joke, and not a very funny one.
Still, there’s a reason he’s leaving. Isn’t there?
Must be, or he wouldn’t have left, and he’s not about to ignore his higher instincts. However much he prefers his baser urges currently insisting that he stay and canoodle with strippers.
“House,” Wilson slurs, “you can’t leave. You organised this whole thing! I mean, you—”
He interrupts his own speech with a barked laugh, wagging his finger like he’s one something. He stumbles slightly as he shakes his head, hands thrust firmly on his hips.
House wishes this stupid elevator would hurry the fuck up.
“You’re my best man,” Wilson says, and House might feel inclined to pity the poor bastard if he didn’t look so smug.
He wants to snog that self-righteous smirk right off Wilson’s stupid sexy face.
Sober. House needs—he desperately needs to get himself sober. Sexy and Wilson are two words that should not be within an inch of one another.
“I’m always your best man,” House drawls, “you don’t know any better men.”
The jibe was supposed to be a targeted joke, but it comes out sounding bitter. House swipes his tongue across his teeth as though that’ll help sharpen his whiskey-dulled syllables.
“I know Foreman,” Wilson says, folding his arms like he doesn’t know what to do with them, “Chase.”
House raises his brows, and Wilson has the decency to look uncertain.
Wilson clears his throat, says a little too quietly: “Taub.”
House leers back, starts to smile. He holds his gaze with Wilson who can’t seem to look him directly in the eye.
There’s something charged in the air, and it pinches like static. House feels himself leaning toward Wilson, and he presses his cane into the floor, knuckles pushing white to stop himself from taking the step.
Wilson matches his stare, probably an accident, and now he seems unable to look away. House wills him to blink first, wants to look away but doesn’t want to be the one who breaks the moment.
Whatever…this moment actually is.
A drawn-out sigh from Wilson slices through their stale mate and he finally tears his eyes away.
“Fine,” Wilson concedes eventually, “you win. But really that’s all the more reason why you can’t just leave.”
“it’s your Bachelor party,” House says as the elevator announces its arrival, “not mine.”
“You organised it!”
House takes no notice of him. The elevator announces itself with a chime and the doors slide open with a tinny whine. House steps inside, turning to lean against the back, both to support his leg, and to hold himself upright as the walls around him twist, lurching violently.
Maybe he’d had six glasses instead of five, he can’t quite remember. House hates misremembering, because it means he’s not in control, and with a mind like his, control is all he has.
House follows the sweep of Wilson’s tongue as it darts out to wet his lips.
He should’ve—should’ve stayed more focussed.
“House,” Wilson tries, “please.”
House just smiles, stares down at his shoes.
“Go back inside Wilson, you’re drunk.” House huffs, eyes trained at the ceiling. “Get drunker, enjoy your last night of freedom.”
“And you’re what,” Wilson argues, narrowing his eyes, “going back to the flat? Drinking alone?”
House pretends to think about his answer, shrugs. “Pretty much,” he says, enjoying the way Wilson’s nostrils flare.
“Yeah, sounds fun,” Wilson shoots, sarcasm falling damp, “House, you—you really don’t have to do this.”
The lift doors start to close, but House stops them with his cane. “Do what?”
“Push people away,” Wilson says, “again. Like always.”
“Aw,” House says, and pouts, “push people away? But Jimmy, whoever could you mean.” There’s no one else left to push, House doesn’t add.
There’s Cuddy, and his team, and potentially his old team too, but it won’t last forever, can’t last long. Sooner or later, they’ll leave him.
Sooner or later, Wilson’s all he’ll have left, and House isn’t sure he knows how to cope with something so final.
Wilson sighs, hands landing awkwardly on his hips again. He sways slightly. “Me,” he clarifies, taking the bait, “stay. For me. You said it yourself, it’s my bachelor party, and I’m asking you to stay."
“Go back inside,” House says simply, “stop thinking you can change me. You can’t, and it’s offensive.” He taps his leg with the end of his cane. “Cripple, remember? Asking me to change to fit your needs is like—” he waves a hand, “well, bad or something.”
He expects Wilson to nod, or to laugh, or to shake his head and stalk off back inside. He doesn’t expect to hear his voice waver slightly, barely above a whisper.
“Don’t go.”
The elevator doors begin to slide shut, and House wonders if it means anything that Wilson’s eyes are slightly wet
He closes his eyes, and sucks in a sharp breath, willing the room to stop spinning. He jolts to attention as he hears the doors wheeze open again, and he can’t, for the life of him, figure out what Wilson’s doing in the elevator with him.
“What’re you doing?” he manages, but Wilson’s already pushed his way into the elevator. He stands there, panting, and House would spit out some snappy remark, but for the way Wilson’s staring at him like that.
His pupils are wide, dark, his lips are slightly parted, House watches the line of his throat bob as he swallows something thick.
Wilson steps towards him. The doors click shut, and the elevator starts to descend.
“Wilson,” House says, and his voice scrapes out as a rasp, “what’re you doing?”
It’s a challenge, not a question. Wilson knows this, knows it’s a challenge. He shakes his head, eyes dropping to House’s lips.
“I don’t know.”
And then house is swallowing his words like they’re cheap liqueur, and Wilson’s pushing him against the elevator wall, and they’re kissing.
Wilson’s kissing him.
His lips are plump, soft but faintly pressing, and Wilson tastes sweet, mixed up with something bitter. His tongue swipes across the seam of House’s lips, and House surprises himself with how easily he grants him access.
He brings his hands up and goes to shove Wilson away, but then Wilson flicks his tongue against House’s teeth and he’s digging his nails into his broad shoulders instead.
He feels greedy, and his head swims, and there’s an ache in his chest that burns far stronger than it ever has before.
Heart burn probably, from the alcohol.
Maybe he feels nauseous. Maybe it’s the Vicodin. Maybe—
Oh, and that’s—oh. Wilson’s leg pushes up between House’s thighs, and he clearly wasn’t telling the truth about his alcohol induced performance issues, because yep, there he is, pressed into House’s hip.
Heat pools to Hose’s lower abdomen, and arousal spikes in his blood, dizzying.
House arches, and Wilson moans, he moans into House’s mouth and the sound vibrates low, making his lips tingle—and why haven’t they done this before?
The lift jolts to a stop on the ground floor, and Wilson stumbles back. His lips are red, swollen, and slick with saliva. It’s not a particularly appealing sight, and Wilson seems to realise, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
Neither one of them speaks, and neither one seems to want to. House wouldn’t know what to say even if he did.
Ah. Right. This is why they haven’t done this before.
The doors slide open, and for a moment Wilson just stands there, blinking.
“Don’t you wanna…” House clears his throat, gesturing to the open doors.
“Oh, right,” Wilson nods, scrambling out of the lift as fast as he can. A difficult feat when he’s tripping over his own feet with every second step. House rolls his eyes but follows after him, his leg smarting just a little more than it usually would from an elevator ride.
They make it outside and the cold air smacks into house’s cheeks full force. It’s biting, and it makes him painfully aware of the fact that he’s just been sucking face with his best friend.
Wilson sucks in a breath, exhales. There’s a crash from above and by the looks of the colours still flashing from his apartment, the sound definitely came from Wilson’s.
“House,” Wilson starts, and oh no, that will not do at all. There’s two ways this can go, and since one of those options involves never speaking again…
House isn’t gonna let that happen.
“House, maybe we should—”
“Call a cab?” He turns to Wilson, and prays to a God he doesn’t believe in that he doesn’t look too hopeful. “Your place, or mine?”
Wilson’s far too drunk, and he’s far too sluggish to comprehend the fact that his apartment is currently being used as a bachelor’s dream penthouse. Wet dream penthouse.
House snorts to himself, and then he thinks he might be losing his touch. Wasn’t even that good a joke.
“Yours is uh, well,” House points upwards with his cane, “otherwise occupied. So, unless you’re into a spot of exhibitionism—”
“Yours,” Wilson blurts, “your place.”
House nods. And they’re doing this. They’re really doing this.
Wilson’s fumbling with his phone, but his fingers are too uncoordinated and he’s taking far too long. House yanks the phone out of Wilson’s fingers, dialling the number of the taxi company he has memorised in case he can’t get hold of Wilson when he’s at a dive bar some place. Wilson’s the one he’d usually call, which, yeah.
The cab doesn’t take too long but it feels like an age until it pulls up, the driver looking decidedly nonplussed at the prospect of inviting two middle-aged, clearly drunk men into his car.
House has to help Wilson climb inside, but really, he’s not doing all that much better. He expects the ride home to be quiet, tense, and he’s right about one thing. It is quiet.
He’d predicted that at least.
Tense though? If anything, it’s comfortable, and he struggles to understand what that means.
He should stop this, he knows he should stop this. He should tell the driver to turn around, drop Wilson off on the side of the road. Damage that causes would only be half of what’ll happen if he lets this go too far.
He says nothing, does nothing, and lets the streetlamps blur as they drive by too fast to track.
House finds himself enjoying the heavy weight of Wilson’s head as he sleeps upon his shoulder.
Maybe that makes him selfish.
He wonders if happiness feels anything at all like vanity.
*
Wilson doesn’t sleep for long, and he wakes up in time for them to stagger from the car towards the flat.
House is beginning to feel ill, can’t put his finger on why.
Wilson thanked the driver, House didn’t. He doesn’t look at Wilson as he unlocks the door.
It can’t be because Wilson’s engaged. House has no moral qualms about sleeping with a married man, or woman. Or, you know, pre-married anyway.
It can’t be because he’s drunk, they’re both drunk. They’d both be taking advantage, it isn’t about that.
Wilson grins, leaning against House in the elevator, clinging to his arm and resting his chin on House’s shoulder.
This is fine, there’s nothing wrong with what they’re doing. It’s not as if House has some sort of internalised homophobia to work through, he hasn’t been repressing his attraction to men for years—jokes about it all the time.
Wilson nuzzles into the crook of his neck, pressing his lips against his skin. House shivers.
Ok, he won’t deny it, Wilson’s an attractive man. House has always found him attractive, from the moment he saw him sitting in that holding cell. Cupid’s bow, doll eyes, soft chestnut coloured hair.
House pushes his key into the lock.
He’s never repressed his attraction to Wilson either, well, not enough not to notice it was there. Only so far as so he didn’t act on it.
The only real thing he’s been repressing—
Wilson sucks, just above his pulse point. House lets his eyes flutter shut for a moment, head tilted back.
Yeah, the only thing he’s been repressing is just how much he cares.
House’s eyes snap open.
Just how much he wants, needs.
The key turns, the lock clicks.
Just how much he feels.
The door flies inwards, and Wilson’s on him before he has a chance to realise he’s in love, has been in love, doesn’t want to accept the fact that he needs something so sane and insignificant as love.
House allows himself to be pushed backwards, lets Wilson guide him into his bedroom, close the door.
He lets Wilson crowd him against the wood, sucks in a breath.
“Wilson,” he says, because there’s no going back if he lets this happen, “Wilson.”
“Hmm?” Wilson asks and slides his hands downwards to untuck the bottom of House’s shirt, sliding underneath. “House? This ok, are you ok?”
No, no. This isn’t ok, everything’s not ok, and House is fairly certain that nothing will ever be ok again.
Wilson is getting married. Wilson says he’s straight. Wilson doesn’t love him.
Sometimes, Wilson tells House he thinks he must like the pain.
“Kiss me,” House says instead of stop, instead of what are we doing, instead of what he really wants to say.
Wilson snorts. “What d’you think I’ve been doing?”
“Like you mean it,” House says, but he says it so quietly, he’s not even sure that he didn’t just imagine moving his lips.
“Huh?” Wilson says, muffled as he peppers sloppy kisses along House’s neck.
House shakes his head, and yanks Wilson closer to him, smashing their lips together again. Wilson makes a noise, and his fingers bunch fistfuls of House’s shirt.
House lets Wilson kiss him. He lets, he wants, and he loves, and the sharp pain in his leg is a stark reminder that his relationships have a habit of ending.
“Wilson,” he groans, and there’s blood roaring in his ears, pounding in his skull, “leg.”
Wilson’s pulls back just enough for him to understand, the need to care for House slicing through the haze of his arousal.
“Bed,” House grunts in order, “now.”
Wilson nods, kisses House as they move away from the door, causing them both to trip, topple onto the mattress.
Wilson giggles, and then he’s pressing his weight against House, straddling his hips as he sucks his lower lip into his mouth. These kisses are wet, open mouthed, a clash of teeth and tongue and barely pause enough for breath.
If Wilson’s reputation’s anything to go by, this isn’t what kissing him should feel like.
Kissing Wilson should feel soft, and warm, where this all feels far too hot and sticky. Kissing Wilson should feel slow, deliberate, explorative with a leisurely build towards an overwhelming want.
This feels needy, desperate, and there’s a difference between want and yearning. And House, House yearns. He feels it gnawing in his gut, tugging him towards the ground.
Wilson’s teeth tug at House’s lips so gently, that he arches, almost keens. His pants are painfully tight, and he needs, he needs, he yearns for Wilson to just touch him. His hands are so soft against House’s skin, underneath his shirt, but they leave a trail that chars the flesh straight through to House’s bones.
Time to shift the focus, and House does what he always does: he deflects.
He reaches up, slides his own hands over Wilson’s stomach, feels him gasp then shudder. He runs his fingers upwards, slowly, smoothing the pad of his thumb over Wilson’s nipple, and the man tenses, staring down at House with eyes heavy-lidded.
House raises a brow, and Wilson licks his lips, nodding his head just a fraction.
As House watches, Wilson fumbles with his shirt buttons, his movements weighted, clumsy. Eventually he decides he’s had enough, and tugs the shirt over his head, chucking it to one side.
It’s unceremonious at best, and Wilson sways slightly as he regains his footing.
He leans forwards, one knee between House’s. he reaches up, and House is sure this might just be what kills him because Wilson cards one hand through House’s hair, and brings the other to cup his jaw.
Wilson kisses House, and he can no longer remember where he starts and Wilson ends.
He scrapes his hands along his back, and feels him, feels Wilson, his skin, solid underneath his palms. This is everything, and nothing all at once.
House moans, vocals strained and just a bit too high. If Wilson doesn’t touch him now, he thinks he might explode. The coiled tension in his stomach starts to pull, and pull, and he’s digging his dingers into Wilson’s shoulders, and if he doesn’t hurry up House’s happy ending is about to come before they’ve even started.
Wilson bucks his hips, and House sees nothing but ash and smoke.
“House,” Wilson sighs, and House feels scattered all over again. His name on those lips, embers sifted through a dying breeze.
“House,” Wilson says again, pulling back. His brow is furrowed, and he presses his hand against his forehead. “House.”
House goes to prop himself up, but his head’s spinning and he lets himself fall back down again.
“House, I—” Wilson’s sitting up now, hunched over, and he groans, “I think I’m gonna be sick.”
With that, he promptly vomits over a pair of House’s shoes and passes out beside him in a heap.
Attractive. Elegant. Perfect bedside manner.
And please, this is the man every woman fawns over?
House huffs, pushing Wilson away, and watching as he rolls onto his side.
He looks peaceful like this, despite the light scratches on his shoulder blades and the sheen of sweat plastering his hair to his forehead.
What’d it be like, to wake up beside him? Would they talk? They’d have to.
Maybe they wouldn’t.
Maybe they shouldn’t.
House doesn’t trust what it is he might say.
Wincing, he pushes himself to his feet and hobbles over to where he left his cane. His leg will protest in the morning, but he’ll sleep on the couch tonight.
He should probably drink some water, make sure he doesn’t feel as bad as Wilson will when he wakes up, but he can’t bring himself to care enough to make his way over to the sink.
There are worse things coming than a hangover.
House takes one last look at Wilson before he closes the door. He’ll clean up the vomit tomorrow, if Wilson hasn’t gotten around to doing it himself.
He brings two fingers up to his lips, presses gently. He lets his arm drop, and wishes Wilson kissed him hard enough to bruise.
In the living room, Wilson’s coat is where he left it, flung to the left of the door. In his pocket, House finds his mobile.
It blares a notification from Hannah, his fiancé, asking him why he's not at home.
House lets his arm drop, phone slipping from his fingers. It clatters on the hardwood floor, plastic clad and gunshot thick.