House could barely keep his eyes on the game, and it was an exciting one. The Flyers were playing the Devils, the score was close, and there was currently a huge fight among the players. Wilson favored the Devils, of course, being a Jersey boy, and House preferred the Flyers, for reasons Wilson could never understand. They had a bit of cash riding on the game, a $50 bet between the friends. All these things combined would normally keep House riveted to the screen. He loved betting, and hated to lose. But his eyes kept darting away. Wilson noted that sweat was beading his brow, though it was a cool day and he was only wearing an undershirt and boxers. House groaned slightly and heaved himself to his feet. He hobbled into the bedroom without a word and collapsed onto the bed.
Wilson was torn. He wanted to help him, but House could be prickly. Sometimes it was better to pretend not to notice his pain. "You might as well go," House called out from the bedroom, "unless you want to watch the rest of the game. I'm going to sleep. "
"OK," said Wilson, snapping off the television. He got up and turned out the lights, then sat down on the couch again. He had no intention of leaving until House was asleep. He hunkered down into the leather sofa, pulling a scratchy wool blanket around himself. In the bedroom, House groaned again. His thigh ached, and he'd already taken two Vicodin. There was a bottle of morphine on a high shelf, hidden in a wooden box. He wasn't sure he could get to it in his current state, but it was there. And somewhere in his quarters were a few joints covertly stolen from Wilson's medical stash, tightly and inexpertly rolled by the good doctor himself. He couldn't remember exactly where he stashed the,, but it was just as well. He wanted to save those for something more fun than relief from pain.
House lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, breathing deeply and trying to sleep. Why some days were worse than others was a complete mystery; pain itself was not easily explained. It could signify nothing, or that a patient had only moments to live. In his condition, it was simply a marker of the status quo, the infarction in his thigh that would plague him for the rest of his life. It was neither good nor bad, it just was.
He drifted off slightly, but the pain jerked him awake again. He looked at his alarm clock; he had slept for only three minutes. He dozed and awakened in this fashion for over an hour, after which he felt more exhausted than before. The pain was worse, and his need for sleep was wearing him down. He groaned with the discomfort and futility of his situation. The Vicodin made him drowsy, but the pain kept him awake. He felt ridiculously sorry for himself. Might as well give in to it. There was nothing else to do but lie in bed and moan in self-pity.
In the living room, Wilson lay under the wool blanket, listening to House toss and turn and moan. He hated the way his body reacted to these sounds, the way his breathing intensified, his cock stirred... in his fevered imagination, House was moaning in his arms as Wilson teased him to a shattering climax. But he, James Wilson, knew the difference between the sounds of pain and pleasure. He'd seen countless cancer patients moaning in pain and never, ever thought it was anything but that. He was a terrible person, to be getting off on his friend's agony.
Wilson threw the blanket off and stood up with resolve. The least he could do was try to help.
He went into the kitchen and looked through the cabinets, careful to be quiet. He found a bottle of Maker's Mark and poured few measures into two juice glasses. Then he took a clean dishtowel and ran it under the cold water for a few minutes, squeezed out the excess water, and put everything on a pink cocktail tray, a bit of kitsch House had picked up in Las Vegas. He went into the bedroom, set the tray on the night-table, and sat on the bed next to House.
"You're still here? I thought you left hours ago," said House in a tired voice.
"I wanted to watch the game," said Wilson, although it wasn't true.
"I fell asleep," replied Wilson. He thought of how fucked-up it was that he had to lie to conceal his concern for his best friend. Was it so wrong to care about someone, to be hurt by their pain? But to be aroused by that pain, that wasn't right. Briefly Wilson wondered if it was guilt that kept him by House's side. But seeing House take a sharp breath, the sight of him in agony, it just about tore him up. He couldn't stand to see it, he just had to make it better.
He slid under the covers, keeping a few cautious inches between them, pulled the covers over his lap, and balanced the tray on top. He handed House one of the whiskey glasses and took the other for himself, sipping delicately before setting it on the night-table. House held his glass up to the light, and looked at Wilson curiously.
"Alcohol and painkillers? I thought you didn't approve."
"Extreme circumstances call for extreme measures. The alcohol will intensify the effects of the Vicodin, maybe knock you out for a few hours. It's bad, isn't it?" he asked cautiously.
House took a long drink of whiskey, flinched, and nodded, moving his leg to a more comfortable position.
"Lie back," Wilson said. He took the damp towel, folded it into a rectangle, and pressed it to his forehead. House closed his eyes, but they were screwed tightly shut, not relaxed as in sleep. It was harder than Wilson imagined, watching him like this. He wondered how many nights he spent in such pain.
"It's not usually so bad," House said, as if reading his mind. He finished the whiskey in two gulps and set the empty glass on the night-table. He leaned back and flinched slightly as he rubbed his leg. All the pity Wilson felt for him was completely washed away by his unseemly arousal. He kept thinking of last weekend, against the Corvette, the way House had teased him until he lost all control, almost driven out of his mind with lust. The wanton way he'd begged for it, pleading and moaning, and the way House had made him confess to it before letting him come. Irrationally, he felt a keen desire to reciprocate, to tease House until he was begging for release. It was almost like anger, but not quite, more like erotic vengeance. There was also pity; he hated to see House in so much pain. And above all, hot lust for his friend. Maybe there was a way to combine all his conflicting emotions and also help House to fall asleep...
House exhaled sharply, his good leg twitched against Wilson, and he removed the damp cloth from his forehead. "Nothing's working," he said miserably. "Can you get the morphine from the top of my bookshelf? I want you to inject me."
"There's one more thing we can try," said Wilson, and the very thought caused his heart to pound.
House said, "I'm just about out of drugs, though I think there's a joint or two somewhere in this place."
"Forget it, you can't combine marijuana with Vicodin and alcohol. It might knock you out, but who knows when you'd wake up. I have a better idea." House turned to face Wilson, wincing a little. Under the covers, Wilson put a hand lightly on House's good thigh, lifted an eyebrow suggestively, hoping he wouldn't have to say it out loud.
"That's seems like it would help you more than me. I'm hardly in the mood," House grumbled.
"It will flood your body with seratonin and dopamine, which combat pain, and probably give you an hour or two of relief." Wilson emphasized the word relief, so House would understand the dual implication. "It has some medical validity."
"Are you prescribing a fuck, Dr. Wilson?" asked House weakly.
"I guess I am." He didn't wait for House to reply, but leaned over and kissed him softly, tasting his lips, just testing the waters. House responded, but barely, his lips moving only slightly. Wilson caressed his thigh, and House's sigh ended in a little whimper.
"How can I tell if you're moaning in pain, or, ah..." Wilson trained off uncertainly.
"I can't tell the difference myself sometimes," admitted House.
House smiled wistfully. "Believe me, I pray for those times when the wires are crossed."
"It's probably the Vicodin," Wilson said. But he was intrigued by the idea of House feeling not the pangs of pain, but pleasure. Did he walk through the hallways of the hospital, aroused and stiff in his pants, waiting for a chance to be alone? He continued to caress House's thigh, inching upwards slowly, until House caught his breath.
"Are you OK with this?" asked Wilson, half-afraid he'd say No, but House just nodded. Wilson leaned down again to kiss him, so gently, it was almost chaste, but House opened his mouth, inviting him to gain entry. "Kiss me," House whispered, and Wilson exhaled sharply, because he loved that House was asking for it. He kissed him more deeply, tasting the whiskey they had just drank, losing himself in the kiss, and now House was responding, oh yes, one hand behind his head to pull him closer, and then Wilson ripped off the covers and straddled his friend, careful not to put any weight on his bad leg, kneeling on either side of him, so he could lean down and kiss him the way he wanted to.
"You have the most beautiful lips," House murmured, and Wilson stopped kissing him and looked at him curiously. It wasn't like House to talk this way. But then he remembered the Vicodin and whiskey and realized he was probably just a little loopy from the combined effects. Even since the Corvette incident, things had been pretty much the same between them, and House had been just as abrasive, only a little bit more physical. They sat close to each other on the couch now, and sometimes Wilson leaned up against him while they were watching television, which House seemed to like, from his elevated breathing, and his slight smile. But most things hadn't changed, which is what House predicted. Except last night, while he was leaning against him, absorbed in watching OR, House suddenly moved his arm around him so that Wilson's head was against his shoulder and he was unexpectedly nestled close to him, so close that he could smell his slight musk, the clean fragrance of his soap. He had closed his eyes, loving the moment, and House tightened his arm a little bit, and Wilson sighed happily. "Later on, guess what we're going to do," said House suggestively, and then had he traced Wilson's jaw with one light finger and moved his good leg so it was flush with Wilson's, staring straight ahead at the screen and smiling like the cat that ate the canary. But it never happened, because Wilson had to answer a page from the hospital, and was held up there for so long with a relapsed patient that afterwards he simply went home and collapsed into bed.
It had only been a week since their first kiss, and Wilson had lived for years without anything more than the shadow of a promise of this feeling with his best friend, but now that he had tasted it, he couldn't go without. House shifted his hips impatiently and Wilson bent down again to kiss him slowly. His cock was already hard at the memory of what had happened between them, but he could feel that House was only half-erect. It wasn't a night to rush things, or to be rough or greedy. Later, when House was feeling better, he was going to take what had wanted for so long with a bit more force.
He looked down at House, whose eyes were closed. He trailed his fingers down his neck, over his lips. House captured his hand, put the tips of his fingers in his mouth, sucking them slowly. Wilson groaned and rocked his hips a little.
"The other day," House whispered, and Wilson knew just what day he meant, "I wanted to go down on you, against the car. I wanted to kneel in the gravel to suck you, but you know, the bum leg...." Wilson shivered a little. He could feel House growing stiffer, but it was nothing like the iron in his own pants. House's fingers were trailing up to his waist, underneath his shirt, caressing his hot skin. "Take this off," said House, pulling on the shirt. Wilson struggled out of it and threw it aside. The soft lamp-light made his skin look warm and golden, and glinted off his auburn hair. Wilson could never conceal his sexual arousal; his cheeks were flushed, his hair mussed, and his lips just a little swollen. House looked at him with unabashed pleasure. Wilson leaned down to kiss deeper, harder, with mouth open, biting his lips and allowing himself to groan with the pleasure of it all. House's hands were tight around his waist, and he was starting to thrust his hips a little, to catch his breath when Wilson leaned down to trail kisses and soft little bites down his neck, to slide his hands under House's shirt, teasing his nipples into sharp points that made House gasp when he pinched them.
"Does it hurt?" he asked, pinching again, because he knew it did, just a little, that sharp stinging pain that was just on the border of pleasure.
"Yes," House groaned. He loves it, Wilson thought, teasing and pinching until he couldn't stand to hear another of House's whimpering sighs, he was so stiff in his pants, and afraid of coming too quickly. House was reaching up to unbuckle his belt, starting to unzip him, but Wilson caught his hands, pushing them down to the bed, pinning him there. House was stronger, but weakened by pain and drugs. Yet still he resisted, trying to get to Wilson's zipper, he was struggling, panting to gain control.
"Stop," said Wilson, "or you'll hurt yourself."
"I already hurt." House wouldn't give up, although Wilson had both his wrists in an iron grip.
"Don't make it worse. I can make this last a long time."
"And I can end it pretty quickly." But House relaxed a little, gave up the struggle.
"Then I'll take care of it myself," Wilson said. He rocked against him, their cocks not quite meeting because he was sitting a little high on House to avoid his bad leg, but there was enough friction for him to know that House was stiff and wouldn't be falling asleep anytime soon.
"Do it," whispered House, looking at him seductively with half-parted lips. "I want to see."
"You mean....." Wilson blushed scarlet. That was a secret, something he'd never shared with anyone. It was private, just for himself. House nodded. "Yeah, do it. God, I want to see you." The very thought of Wilson jacking off made him pant and push his hips upward. Wilson unzipped his pants, slid his underwear down to his hips, and his cock already stiff and glistening...he was so ready for it. Looking at House intently, gauging his reaction, Wilson put a tentative hand around himself, tightened it a bit, slid it back and forth.
"The way you always do," said House. "You like it a bit harder, don't you?"
Later, Wilson would question how his friend knew such an intimate detail about himself, but he was too far gone to stop and think about it. He tightened his hand, jerked himself a little harder, breath coming a little faster. House was looking at him, eyes burning intensely, mouth open. Wilson let himself moan freely as he stroked harder, and House panted softly in sympathy. He likes to watch, thought Wilson, and this sudden thought made his cock throb and leak a little. He loved the way House's eyes darted from his hand, to his cock, to his eyes, like he was drinking in the sight. He had been hard for at least an hour, there was no way this would last very long.
"Feels good," he panted, looking down at House. It felt so dirty to be watched.
"Looks good," said House, sighing. But it was going to be over too fast. He slowed his hand, and House rocked his hips impatiently. "Do it!" he urged. And Wilson couldn't keep his hands off himself, he was too close. He jerked himself with long, luxurious strokes, trying to slow it down, make it last....
"House!" he groaned, stopping. "It's--"
"Yeah, c' mon," whispered House. "Finish yourself." He lifted his shirt, slid his boxers down a little, trailing his fingers over his chest and stomach. "Come all over me, Jimmy."
"You've got a dirty mouth," he groaned, and then his hand was flying faster, squeezing tighter, his eyes met House's, wide with lust and pleasure, and his back arched, he was coming hard, shooting in jets, panting, but all he could hear were House's groans.
"Oh yeah," House said, bucking his hips. "You're so goddamn sexy like that." Wilson said nothing, catching his breath for only a moment before he reached down to finally unzip House and pull out his cock, stiff and slick with his excitement. It felt so nice in his hand, so heavy and smooth, without thinking, he leaned down and sucked the tip of it into his mouth. House swore and jerked his hips, and Wilson knew it was pain, that his bad leg was aggravated even in his pleasure, but he didn't care. He let House's cock drop from his lips, pausing only to lay soft kisses on his belly and hips, not caring that he was tasting his own come. Then his mouth was on House's cock again, sucking the tip tightly in his mouth, then letting it rest loosely while he tongued the slit.
"That's good..." sighed House, and he tangled his fingers in Wilson's hair, doing his best to stop himself from thrusting madly, from shoving his cock down Wilson's throat. Wilson sucked the tip of his cock, hard, soft, tight, then loose. His tongue trailed from the base to the tip, and he blew hot breath on it, which made House shiver. "A little deeper," he said, arching his back.
Wilson looked up at him, eyes dark. "No," he said. Wilson tongued him, sucked him tightly, but only just the tip. House wanted to pull Wilson's hair, thrust like mad into his hot wet mouth. He couldn't stop himself from groaning wantonly, thinking, mmmn, what a tease, what an absolutely filthy cocktease.
"Suck me!" he gasped out, and he realized that he was begging for it.
"No, not yet." Wilson was calm as he licked and kissed and tongued the tip of his cock delicately. He paused, seemingly intent on just looking at him, erect and straining, waiting helplessly for Wilson to suck him hard enough to bring him off. House felt himself flush with something akin to anger. His fingers were wrapped in Wilson's hair and he pulled and twisted it, wanting to hurt him, wanting to see tears springing to his eyes, but try as he might, he couldn't get Wilson to take him all in. He just trailed a finger casually up and down House's wet and throbbing prick, and the room was filled with House's frustrated groans and sighs.
Finally he lowered his head again, never taking his eyes off House's. The sight of his friend sucking him off had an unexpected effect on House. He loved what he saw: Wilson's cherry lips wrapped around his rigid cock, his hand wrapped around the base, it was oh-so-nice, but he knew it could get better, then Wilson stopped again and the lack of it was almost painful.
"Want it?" he asked mischievously.
House knew immediately this was payback for the day against the Corvette when he had made Wilson beg for it. You little tart, he thought affectionately. He tried to calm his breathing, but it was no good, he was too far gone. Wilson trailed one finger lightly up his prick, rubbing the tip just a little with his index finger, which he then put in his mouth, sucking it deep, in a mockery of what he was withholding from House.
"I guess not," Wilson said nonchalantly. "All right, then," and he made as if to get up.
"Wilson, you son-of-a-bitch. Suck me," House said in a strained voice. Wilson was kneeling at the foot of the bed. He looked up at House, grinning. "I asked if you want it. Answer me."
"Yes," House groaned, and he discovered that he liked saying it. "Yes, yes," he said again. Wilson lowered his head, which made his cock twitch, his ass tighten in anticipation, and then Wilson's mouth was on him again, tight and sinking deeper, but only a half-inch at a time, so that it took forever for him to take in his whole length, and his hips were pinned to the bed by Wilson's elbows, hurting him a little, but then his whole cock was deep in Wilson's mouth, stretching out his gorgeous lips...ah, what an expert little cocksucker, he thought. He couldn't stop himself from thrusting and clawing Wilson's hair. Wilson was sucking him off fast; it felt so good to pump into his mouth, his ass was clenching, balls drawing up, "Fuck, yes," he gasped, and he wanted it to last, but when Wilson reached around to grab his ass, to force him even deeper into his mouth, he trembled and shot his come deep into Wilson's mouth with a hard short groan, looking down, he saw his come trickling down Wilson's lips. He kept spurting, and Wilson wouldn't let go, he was sucking him even tighter, his cock was throbbing almost painfully as Wilson sucked and tongued every last drop out of him, until he was pumped dry and his cock was soft and spent, but still he couldn't stop thrusting even as he was begging Wilson to stop.
"Please, it's too much," he panted and finally Wilson let him slip out of his mouth, and slid next to him to kiss him, but House was too tired to move his lips. He still felt the pleasurable waves of his climax coursing through him; the pain in his thigh was gone, the release had been intense. He felt his breathing slowing, his heart rate return to normal. Suddenly he groaned and his hips jerked up involuntarily, his back arched, fingers digging into Wilson, then it was over and he lay back exhausted, completely and utterly spent.
Wilson laughed softly. "They call it aftershock. It's very rare in men. It probably means you can have multiple orgasms. You lucky dog."
"Hmm," House said. He was too tired for this to register. He closed his eyes, drifting.
"No pain?" Wilson asked him.
"No pain," he said, and then he sank into a deep slumber, his best friend at his side.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.