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Wilson’s angry. House doesn’t recall what about – mistreating a patient, being cruel to Cuddy, jerking around his fellows, it doesn’t matter. What matters is Wilson’s attention. What matters is the weight of it, the pushback, the immovable object to his unstoppable force. Equilibrium. A wall for his racing thoughts to throw themselves against, a dike, ha, dyke, like Thirteen –
And then Wilson’s hand is closing on the back of his neck, and the floodwaters recede, the electric charge quiets. House manages to strangle the pathetic little sigh that rises to his lips, but he can’t help the way his shoulders loosen under the relief of it. They’re kissing now, and he thinks maybe Wilson didn’t see, didn’t understand.
That would be boring.
Wilson draws back, pins him with a heavy gaze. House has heard more than one smitten nurse compare his eyes to chocolate, but that’s because they’ve never seen this, the wicked smirk and the cruel glint as he says “Oh, so that’s what you want."
And House, he’s – tongue-tied. He can see the shape of it, the snarky comment to bring them back to safer ground, but he can’t reach it. He wants this too bad. Wants Wilson, wants the quiet, all of it. Thinks he must say his name, maybe, because Wilson softens - just a little, just barely - and says, “House.”
He wants this. He’s so afraid of it. The electric current is coming back to life.
“Take me to bed,” he says.
He somehow winds up riding pillion on his own bike, scalp still tingling. There’s only one helmet, because he didn’t expect company tonight, and Wilson took it without question. It’s so selfish. He feels high on it. His leg aches; he forgot his Vicodin in his office in their rush to get out of there, but he has more at home, and the memory of that stinging grip in his hair is almost as potent.
There was a woman he used to hire. She went by Robin or Raven or something, some stupid bird name. He just called her Great Tit. The third time she came around to his apartment, he told her what he wanted and she said no, kissed and bit him til he bled, scratched him and teased him and made him beg for her cunt. He paid her an obscene amount and never hired her again, even when Kathy the chainsmoker who mans the phones said she’d asked about him.
He’s thinking too much again.
Wilson pulls up to his building and House swings himself off the bike on autopilot, limps inside without looking back. The lightning-crack electric buzz is back full-force. Out of habit he heads to the kitchen, reaches for some glasses: a finger of Scotch to wash down the Vicodin, mute the competing screaming livewire currents in his mind and leg, maybe–
The sudden warm weight at his back almost steals his breath, even as his words, his tone – “Not with the Vicodin,” strict and uncompromising – set House’s teeth on edge. It’s an angry, feral thing beneath his skin that urges him to fight back, but Wilson knows, Wilson always knows, and he shoves House into the counter, throws off his balance, bad leg buckling. “We do this my way, or I leave.”
House grits his teeth, tries and fails to regain his balance. He can’t say yes. He can’t say no, either, doesn’t want to say no. He’s an addict. It’s not in his nature. Not when the high is this good.
It’s a relief when Wilson grasps his hair again, makes the decision for him. Demeaning to be dragged along like this, but the sting of humiliation has an unfamiliar edge to it, something he shies away from. And it’s easy, for once, to let go of an unwanted thought: the buzzing in his head has died down, muted under Wilson’s firm grip. He’s shoved onto the bed, cane clattering to the floor, and there’s a moment of reprieve when Wilson kneels to take off his shoes. Without that all-consuming gaze focused on him, he has time to breathe. He craves Wilson’s attention again immediately.
But of course, of fucking course, the moron decides:
“We should talk.”
House groans.
“About what you want,” Wilson continues, relentless. “What you don’t want. Safewords.”
House sits up, glowering. “Spare me the Bathhouse Kinky Intro Course for Latent Bisexuals.” The look Wilson gives him from beneath his ridiculous eyebrows is cool and unaffected, and House takes it for the warning it is, plows ahead anyway. “I know what a safeword is, and I won’t let you do anything I don’t explicitly invite.”
He regrets the snark a moment later, blinding pain arcing down his leg. When the agony clears enough for him to think, Wilson is standing, arms crossed, frowning at him with his patented I’m-not-mad-just-disappointed look. That was beyond the pale. He’s such a bastard. House takes an extra split second to breathe through the awed adoration.
“See, if you'd told me what your limits were and had a safeword, I wouldn't have done that, and I'd have stopped when you said to.”
“Should have known you’re a sadist and a top,” House snips back, rubbing at the edges of the gnarled deficit to relieve some of the pain. “Fine. Safeword is ‘Amber.’”
It’s a low blow. Wilson doesn’t take the bait, and they’re off to the races.
There’s more talking, and House resists the urge to complain that Wilson is boring him. His thigh smarts, but not as insidiously as it usually does. Mostly he wants to see what else Wilson will do. Finally, finally, the interrogation ends, and they’re kissing: House is delirious with it, the bruising press of Wilson’s lips against his own, sharp teeth nipping at his mouth. “I want you to wake up with marks tomorrow,” Wilson whispers.
Something in House practically purrs at the idea. He can just imagine Cuddy’s eyes bugging out, Foreman’s mouth twisting in distaste, and Wilson – because it’s always about Wilson – flustered and defensive and desperately pretending like he’s not a horny, possessive bastard. “That’s fine,” House says. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”
“No, it’s a warning.”
Wilson’s as good as his word, sucking bruises into his flesh, leaving more ephemeral marks too – House can feel the heat on his face in the shape of Wilson’s palm, his thoughts a shocked bray of he slapped me, followed by a gleeful bet his wives never got that.
“See how much I like hurting you,” Wilson pants, and House thinks yes yes yes, rolls his hips up, desperate for friction on his aching cock. “And how much you like it when I do?”
He’s bullied out of his pants, and can only hope it’s not too obvious what it does to him when Wilson’s still fully dressed, still looks so put-together, even with the flush of arousal pinking his cheeks. He’s riding high. The constant electric buzz is muted. There’s no room in his head for anything but Wilson.
He’s still himself, though, so when Wilson gives him an order, he simpers, sarcasm dripping from every word, and then a different kind of electricity is shooting up his spine: Wilson literally has him by the balls, his grip tight and proprietary. “You have no idea how hard it would make me to hear you scream,” Wilson tells him, the words like firecrackers sparking in his ribcage. House takes a deep breath, gets himself under control. This is going to be the death of him. He can’t wait.
Wilson asks about the lube, and House tells him he’s out. He doesn’t share the details: that he used the last of it a few nights ago, hand slick on his own cock, pushed over the edge by thoughts of firm hands and a stern voice.
“There’s all sorts of ways I can think to punish you for that,” Wilson says, and House feels a frisson of excitement in his belly, wondering what Wilson has in mind, how he can make it difficult for him. He’s so distracted by the thought he barely notices Wilson undressing him the rest of the way, doesn’t even register how easily he follows directions.
A word of praise breaks through the reverie, discordant and unwanted. Wilson must see the snark rising to his lips; he moves them forward before the caustic remark surfaces, manoeuvring House between his legs against the head of the bed.
Facing the fucking mirror.
“You know I put that mirror there just for this occasion,” he says, because it’s true, and because he doesn’t have words for what he’s really thinking: look at us, look at us, you’re not allowed to leave me ever, I’ll let you do anything to me, look how perfect we fit.
“Of course you did,” Wilson croons, running a hand up his cock, wet with his own slick. “You’ve wanted for this longer than you care to admit.”
His words are spiced honey dripping down House’s spine as he rests his head against Wilson’s shoulder, shuddering and groaning through the bites and steady strokes. “You needed this. Needed someone else to be in charge, someone else to be the smartest one in the room, someone who knows more than you do, for once, because the one subject you've neglected to master is your own fucking needs.”
He wants to deny it, insist that he doesn’t need anything, except maybe two functioning fucking legs, but he can’t, can barely keep the mental litany of please please please out of his breathless pants. “Luckily,” Wilson continues, as House barely smothers a whimper, “I've been studying you for years. And I know everything - everything - about what you need.”
And then he brings his hand to House’s throat, and House can’t breathe, not because Wilson’s actually cutting off his air – and House is already plotting how to wean Wilson of that caution, how to push him far enough – but because everything is too much, every fibre of his being focused on Wilson and what he does to him. “Let it go,” Wilson orders, voice low and dangerous. “Come for me, House.”
With a stuttering gasp, House surrenders to the blissful quiet.