Chapter Text
“You never take any of my advice!”
“You never give any advice worth taking!”
Wilson pinched his brow and turned to face the city lights. He leaned on the concrete ledge of their shared balcony, where he and House were arguing over the older man's unethical medical decisions.
“I’m sick of it,” Wilson huffed into the cold night air. One more wise crack and he would snap. He squeezed his hand into a tight fist, digging nails into skin.
House scooted ever so closer to Wilson. The most annoying smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.
"I will never do anything you tell me to."
Snap.
Wilson wiped that stupid smirk right off House’s face with one swift, hard slap. His palm stung. The sound of skin striking skin echoed in his ears. His heart raced in his chest as adrenaline pumped through him. House’s head had turned to the side from the force of the impact. His cheek was turning a beautiful, bruising red.
Maybe that would get him to listen.
The man turned to face Wilson, fear flashing across his eyes as he lifted his hand to his cheek, brushing his fingers across the agitated skin. A shiver went down Wilson’s spine, and a twisted smile spread across his face. House was pathetic. Wilson stilled and breathed in House's fear. The respected diagnostician looked like a scared, helpless child. Wilson couldn't help but laugh.
He laughed so hard it woke him from his sleep.
Wilson woke up slowly and peacefully. Another nightmare. He sighed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. They were getting more vivid.
He peered down to find his blanket tented over his (apparently) hard dick. Of course. He lifted the sheets, which brushed up lightly against his erection, and he bit his lip, stifling a sound that threatened to escape. He checked his trousers and, well, at least this time he didn’t have to clean himself up. He let his head fall back down onto his pillow. It was totally normal to occasionally have dreams about hurting your best friend that made you hard in your sleep. They weren’t real, it was fine. He cared about House deeply and would never do anything to hurt him. He wanted to be there for him. Treat him with love and kindness.
But no matter how much he reassured himself that the violent dreams didn't reflect how he really felt, he couldn't help but feel disgusting for having them. Luckily, they were rare.
His dick was begging for attention, and he wasn’t able to stop himself from reaching for it. He wasn't going to let himself jerk off, though. He couldn’t cross that line. He couldn’t touch himself to the tempting ghost of House’s skin burning against his hand. Or to the look of fear in House’s eyes as Wilson laughed at him. He pulled his hand away with more difficulty than he would like to admit. He wasn’t a pervert.
He wasn’t.
Wilson brought himself out of bed, ignoring his hard-on, and went to go make himself breakfast. Eggs and toast, just as he liked them. The savory food was comforting. He ate in silence, wishing he had some company.
On a normal day, he would wish for House.
He finished his breakfast and went about his morning routine, putting his friend out of mind for the time being.
On Wilson's ride to work, however, he let himself think for a moment just how satisfying it would be to slap House across the face in real life.