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The TV and lights are on, noise echoing through the walls, Wilson raises his fist to the door, hand hovering over the wood. Why was this so hard? The door flings open suddenly, startling Wilson out of his idle daydreaming. House materializes in front of him, smirking obnoxiously.
“I could hear your internal torment all the way from indoors. Just come inside.”
Wilson can't even find it in him to send a quip back. He sighs and makes his way over to the couch, flopping himself down. House slams the refrigerator closed and limps his way over to the couch, holding a beer out to Wilson.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, taking a sip and setting the bottle down on the coffee table. He looks over at House, who looks fairly comfortable in ratty looking pyjama pants and a t-shirt. Today they barely saw each other at work, House being busy with a case and managing his fellows, and Wilson seeing another string of patients over in oncology. Today’s youngest was only 7 years old, a little girl diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Wilson had to restrain from breaking down while a young mother sobbed into the lapel of his lab coat.
House turns the volume of the TV down and turns to him expectedly.
“So? Out with it. What’s bothering the Great James Wilson on this fine Tuesday night?”
Wilson‘s eye twitches slightly. “Just tired.” He keeps his eyes focused on the TV screen, following the movements of the scantily-clad women.
“If that were truly the case, you'd be passed out in your hotel room by now.” House pokes him in the ribs. “No seriously, you look like a tiny puppy someone’s kicked. What’s up?”
Wilson averts his eyes from House’s knowing gaze and forces a strained smile. “Why’s it so hard to believe that I might just want to spend time with you after a long day?”
And it was true— maybe the one thing that Wilson could attribute to his many failed marriages was the very sad fact that he had a tendency to come running to his idiot best friend, instead of the person he should actually be coming home to at the end of the day. He hasn't seen Julie in days. Hasn't even stopped by for a change of clothes in days. He's been living out of a suitcase in his hotel room ever since they had a fight two weeks ago.
House thins his lips in exasperation and turns back to face the television, the silence thickening in the air much to Wilson’s discomfort.
“I just can't bear to sleep alone for another night.” Wilson admits softly.
House turns to look at him again. Wilson lowers his head shamefully, not making eye contact. House pauses for a second, studying him with a scrutinizing gaze.
“Alright,” he declares.
“Wha— alright?” Wilson echoes.
“Yeah. Come on.” He gets up and grabs his cane from where it was leaning against the arm rest.
“Uh—” Wilson starts, but House has already retreated into his bedroom.
“Are you coming or what?” He calls out.
Wilson sighs and walks over, sock laden feet quiet on the flooring. House has already pulled down the covers, the soft fabric of his comforter looking too inviting. Wilson loosens his tie and strips down to his boxers and undershirt. Neither of them say anything as he settles down on the bed, back turned to House in a fetal position.
He’s close enough to feel the heat radiating off him, but they're not touching. House turns the lamp out.
“Goodnight.” House says quietly.
“Night.” Wilson mumbles into the pillow.
He wakes up a couple hours later with sweat beading on the back of his neck and an unmistakable desire to reach out and feel House against him. He turns around to face House and inches closer.
“House,” he whispers softly.
“Mmm?” House groans lowly.
Wilson repeats himself, a little more insistent, hoping to communicate that he's aching for something he's never asked for before. “House.”
House opens his eyes at his tone and studies Wilson’s face, his body language, his eyes beginning to darken. Realization washes over his face. Now he gets it.
“House, please.” He coaxes.
House reaches over and curls his hand into the soft hair at the back of Wilson’s neck. “Come here.”
Wilson moves closer and tucks his head into House’s neck, ashamed with himself of how needy he's being, how he practically showed up here tonight and threw himself at his best friend.
“Turn around.” House says.
Wilson leans back into House’s touch, letting himself be cradled in his arms. Warm fingers slip under the hem of his shirt, stroking the skin of his stomach. He whines. Those fingers trail down and into his waistband, curling around his cock. House begins to stroke him gently, but with a good amount of pressure. Wilson gasps and throws his head back.
House presses his lips to his throat, sucking at the soft skin of his neck as he jerks him off. “Is this good?”
Wilson moans and squeezes his eyes closed. “Yes, yeah, so good.” He feels eternally grateful for how tender House is being right now. It feels so good to be touched, especially like this, especially because it’s House, and he feels the tension in his belly start to rise up. House increases the pressure.
“Yeah, that's it, sweetheart. Just let go. It's okay.” He groans into Wilson’s neck.
Wilson cries out he comes, hand pushing House’s face into his neck. His thighs shake as he lets out his release, panting audibly. House rolls him over and kisses him on the lips for the first time, sweetly. And Wilson feels like crying.
He gestures sleepily to House’s erection. “Can I—?” His head feels cloudy with lust.
“It's fine for now. You're all floppy and fucked out anyways.” He smiles slightly, a very uncharacteristic look on his face.
House cleans them up and Wilson curls into him, arms wrapped around him. He presses their foreheads together. “Just in case it crossed your mind, I’m not just upset and needing attention. Um, I love you. And I have for a while.” He says that last part quietly.
House’s eyes burn into him. And for once he’s not making a joke. “I love you too.” He rubs at Wilson’s back and kisses him again.
And maybe, subsequently, it's the thought of knowing what awaits him at the end of every day that makes it that more easy to carry on.