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  Just a Little Touch 
 by l57371  

 Cuddy thinks she's so clever.

House sat in his lounge chair in his office, eyes closed, and the dulcet
tones of Al Green blaring from his iPod.

Making me touch people, thinking I'd gain something from it.

He shifted a little, straightening his bad leg and rolling his head to the
other side. He opened his eyes and glanced briefly out his office window
to the hall. Empty. It was early in the evening though, so not so odd that
it would be all but deserted.

Touching to bring about humanity. Seriously, what am I if not human?

His eyes drooped closed again, and he coasted on the waves of the Vicodin
high, brain foggy and light, body relaxing into the warmth of
painlessness. Or at least as close as he ever got these days.

You're inhuman, House.

Wilson's voice sliced through his buzz and his eyes snapped open again,
taking in the empty office, the conference room next door, the barren
hallway. When exactly did his conscience take on Wilson's voice, anyway?

You could certainly stand to gain a little humanity.

House snorted lightly, his lips curling up into a smile, almost a sneer.
Humanity is over-rated, he answered himself. Getting all touchy-feely
about it isn't going to change anything. He felt his mind begin to drift
again, and his muscles relaxed into a boneless heap as the drug finally
overcame his thoughts. Nobody I want to touch, anyway.

* * *

It was well after nine before House roused himself from his drugged torpor
and made his way down the elevator to the lobby. The elevator doors opened
onto the main hallway and he slowly shuffled his way toward the main
doors, glancing into the subdued lighting of the clinic to his right. Two
people, only shadows from House's point of view, were standing at the main
desk, leaning against it and chatting. He narrowed his eyes and tried to
make out who they were. One was Wilson, there was no mistaking his
posture, the way he moved his hands as he spoke, the shaking of his
shoulders as he laughed at something the other one said. He would know
Wilson anywhere; he didn't have to see his face. Who the other man was,
though, he couldn't make out.

House moved to the shadows beside the door and continued watching them,
Wilson and the mystery man. Maybe if he waited long enough he could corral
Wilson and make him buy dinner. After a few minutes Wilson bent to pick up
his briefcase and the other man swung his overcoat over his shoulders,
preparing to leave. House shrunk back a little further. The unknown man
took two steps past Wilson, then turned back and put a hand on Wilson's
shoulder, rubbing it back and forth as he spoke what looked like a
question into Wilson's ear. Wilson shook his head, patted the other man's
hand that was still on his shoulder, leaning into the touch, then turned
to leave as well. They came through the door of the clinic together.

'Dr. Warren,' House intoned softly. 'Working a little late, aren't you?
There generally aren't that many late night emergencies for you
Ear-Nose-Throat guys.'

'Dr. House,' the other man returned with a half smile. 'I presume I'm
doing the same thing you're doing, seeing to the care of my patients. Oh,
sorry,' the man's mouth curved into a sneer, 'patient.' He enunciated the
't' loudly, with little pop.

'From what I hear, Dr. Warren,' House growled, 'You're seeing more to the
care of your secretary than your patients these days.' He cocked his head
to the side. 'Oh, sorry, secretaries.' He drew out the 's' like a long zed
sound, enunciating just as carefully.

Warren paled and frowned, then nodded briefly at Wilson and stalked
quickly to the door, through it before anyone could say goodnight.

Wilson turned back to House. 'You just can't leave anyone alone, can you?'
The asked, frustration tingeing his voice.

House quirked an eyebrow at the other man. 'Have you ever met me? Of
course I can't, especially not a hypocrite like that.' He turned to the
door, gratified to find Wilson turning with him. 'Come on. Buy me dinner.'
He turned to look at the Wilson's face but he was too far away to see.
Further away than he usually was. Usually he was right at House's
shoulder, but tonight he was distant and removed. What did that mean? 'You
coming?' he asked instead.

Wilson looked briefly back at the clinic and then followed House out.
'Yeah, I guess so.' He wrapped his arms around his torso as they walked,
chin tucked tightly into his chest.

House eyed him carefully. 'So are you going to tell me what he wanted?'

'What who wanted? Warren? Oh, nothing.' Wilson was uncharacteristically
unforthcoming.

'Then what was the little shoulder-hugging scene about then?' House asked,
still watching for a reaction.

'There was no hugging, House. He just rubbed my shoulder, that's all.'
Wilson brought one hand up to the same shoulder, holding it.

'Well, it certainly looked cozy from where I was standing,' House shot
back.

Wilson whirled around and faced him, suddenly angrier than House had seen
him for a very long time. 'It's called comfort,, House! A little human
contact! Offering of support! It's something us HUMANS do for each other!
Not that you would know anything about that, I know.' He pulled his
overcoat more tightly around himself and marched off toward his car.

'Suddenly I'm not very hungry.' The words came floating back to House over
Wilson's shoulder as he wrenched open the car door and flung himself
inside, slamming the door after himself. The belt from his overcoat was
trapped outside, between the door and the body of the car, and it was a
testament to how angry Wilson really was that he did not open the door and
retrieve it, he merely started the car and roared out of the parking lot,
tires squealing a little as he turned onto the ramp.

House watched him go.

* * *

He lay in bed that night, after a dinner of peanut butter sandwiches on
stale bread and way too much scotch, replaying over and over the scene in
the clinic. Warren had put his hand on Wilson's shoulder, and Wilson, damn
him anyway, looked like he liked it. Like he appreciated it. Like he
wanted it.

Was that what Wilson wanted?

* * *

House spent the next day in observation. He watched Wilson, wherever he
went, whomever he talked to, whatever he did, House watched. From office
to cafeteria to hallways to clinic duty, House followed him. Wilson was of
course aware of the scrutiny, and every once in a while casting an
inquiring eye to wherever it was that House was ineffectually hiding, then
turning away with a faint sigh.

What he saw was Wilson seemingly craving the small touches and caresses of
normal, everyday interaction. When he shook hands, he held on for just a
little too long. When he touched his patients, a rub on the shoulder or
elbow, a casual arm slung around the neck, he held on just a little bit
too tight. The cashier in the cafeteria had to snatch her fingers back
after giving Wilson his change from lunch

By mid-afternoon House had seen enough. He sequestered himself in his
office, bouncing his oversized ball lightly off the windows of his balcony
as he thought. Touch was foreign, something to be avoided at all costs,
and here Wilson was seeking it out. House spent most of his life lately
shying away from contact - verbal, physical, what have you - that could
lead to any form of intimacy. The last time intimate touch had invaded his
life, he'd paid for it with his leg, his mobility. Therefore it was to be
shunned. No touch meant no harm, no hurt. Which was why hookers were
perfect, of course. Private touch, yes, but definitely not intimate.

This touching that Wilson seemed so intent on getting just screamed of
intimacy, even though it was nowhere near private. So why seek it out from
people he was not intimate with? Patients, colleagues, none of these
people could be considered close to him. Did he prefer to be touched by
strangers?

A knock came from the glass door and a second later the man in question
stepped through.

House raised an eyebrow at him. 'Need something?' he began.

'No, not really.' Wilson sauntered past the desk and stood, looking out
the windows and across the parking lot in front of the hospital.

'So you're here because...?' House trailed off.

Wilson ignored the question and asked his own. 'Are you finished watching
yet?' He didn't turn away from the windows. 'I have no idea what it is
you're looking for, but I sure as hell hope you've found it. Not only is
it disconcerting to have you hovering all damned day but you're scaring my
patients.' He dropped his chin a little, looking down toward the floor of
the balcony.

House rose from his desk and moved carefully to stand behind him. He
lifted his left hand, the one that wasn't currently clenched,
white-knuckled, around the handle of his cane, and stretched it out toward
Wilson's slumped shoulder. He glanced at the window, thankful it was still
too light to see their reflections in it, then looked to Wilson's
shoulder, hunched under his too-white lab coat, tension radiating. He
watched his hand, slowly moving toward that shoulder, and noticed his
fingers trembling. He made a fist, willing his hand to stop shaking. Again
he stretched his fingers out and again bunched them up, but the trembling
continued. Finally he dropped his hand.

'A little egotistical of you to assume I was watching you. I could have
been stalking that new nurse, you know.' He turned and limped quickly to
the door. 'See you tomorrow.'

Wilson turned from the window in time to see him disappear through the
door and down the hallway. House heard him call after him, 'It's only the
middle of the afternoon!' He didn't turn back.

* * *

After a night of alternately steeling himself to accomplish the task and
throwing all his plans away and calling it bad rubbish, House stalked into
work in the morning. His shoulders were set, his face a mask of grim
determination.

He spotted Wilson's distinctive camel-coloured overcoat at the coffee
kiosk and changed course, fighting down a mild panic attack. He decided on
joviality to cover the nerves.

'Good MORNING, Dr. Wilson!' he boomed as he made his way over. He chuckled
slightly when he saw Wilson's shoulders jump and hunch over. He stopped
just behind Wilson and waited while he finished paying for the coffee.

'House. And to what do I owe the honour of you nearly giving me a heart
attack so early in the morning?' Wilson pocketed his wallet and bent to
retrieve his briefcase.

'No reason, really. Isn't the heart attack enough?' House remained
standing in front, blocking Wilson's escape.

'For you, I suppose it is, yes.' Wilson dodged to the right and attempted
to go around him. 'See you later, House.'

'Wilson, wait,' House said, and shot his hand out to grab Wilson's arm,
just below the elbow. For a moment neither man moved, both of them staring
down at House's hand. He carefully examined the sensation of Wilson's
solid muscles twitching and playing under the fabric of the coat,
squeezing a little harder than he'd originally meant to. Softly House
said, 'Lunch later?'

Wilson seemed to shake himself mentally. 'Um, yeah. Lunch, sure. Come get
me when you're ready.' He didn't make any attempt to retrieve his arm.
'Just make sure it's somewhere close to lunch time this time, alright?' He
looked up at House with the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

House nodded. 'Okay, noon then.' He slowly loosened his fingers and
removed his hand. 'Well, noon-ish.' His eyes twinkled with an unexpressed
smile.

Wilson nodded and walked away, heading for the elevators. For the second
time in two days, House watched him as he went.

* * *

Lunch time came and the two men met in the cafeteria lineup. House
declined a tray of his own and just piled what he wanted onto Wilson's
tray, and then conveniently took off with it to reserve a table when they
came to the cash register. The cashier looked askance at Wilson as she
carefully dropped the change into his hand. Wilson grinned disarmingly at
her. She didn't grin back.

When he reached the table, House was busy doling out the food and drinks
and utensils, the condiment packages, the straws. Wilson lifted an eyebrow
as he watched but said nothing.

'Betcha can't guess what five stupendously moronic things Foreman did this
morning?' House started off, letting his mouth fly and his brain
disengage, watching Wilson's face for silent commentary or reaction. He
nodded in all the right places, making muffled 'mm-hm' sounds in the
pauses, looking up occasionally. Finally, House saw an opening: Wilson had
picked up a French fry.

'They never salt these things enough, do they?' he complained, reaching
for a salt packet and quickly tearing off a corner. Wilson looked up,
startled, fry half way to his mouth. House grabbed his bare wrist and
guided his hand back down to the plate, holding it so that the fry in his
hand hovered above the rest on the table. Quickly, he shook the salt over
the fries, sparingly sprinkling the pile while he watched Wilson's face.

Wilson's eyes were riveted on the hand holding his wrist. He could feel
Wilson's pulse under his fingers, fluttering quickly and then pounding
hard at a rate much too fast for sitting and eating. He stopped and tossed
the rest of the packet aside. After taking a quick, furtive look around to
make sure nobody was watching, he guided Wilson's hand to his mouth and
waited while the man took a bite from the fry. And forgot to chew.

He let go of Wilson's wrist and the man seemed to come back to himself,
resuming eating. He looked back up into House's face after his eyes
wandered, somewhat unfocused, from House's hand to his own hand and back
again. House couldn't remember what he was talking about before, and so
said nothing to fill in the strange silence. After a long moment, House
pushed his chair back and away from the table. He picked up his cane and
pushed himself to his feet. As he passed Wilson, he dropped his hand to
the man's shoulder, squeezing lightly.

'Coming over tonight?'

Wilson was silent as he turned slowly to look up at House's hand, and then
at his face. House kept still, eyebrow raised in question, hand still
gripping Wilson's shoulder lightly. He nodded slightly and turned back
around, confusion warring in his eyes with something else House couldn't
quite identify.

'Good. See you then.' House lifted his hand from Wilson's shoulder and,
completely not by accident, brushed his cheek with his knuckles on the way
by. At the door of the cafeteria he stopped and turned to look at Wilson.
He was still sitting, one hand clutching the wrist House had grabbed, the
other clutching at the shoulder where House had left his hand. He sat,
motionless, until House turned and left.

* * *

Safely back in his office, House dropped into his chair and turned toward
the balcony, gazing unseeingly out into space. His hand ... tingled. The
hand he used to grab Wilson's wrist, the same one with which he touched
Wilson's shoulder, tingled. It had done the same thing that morning at the
coffee kiosk as well. Touching Wilson was making his own hand feel good.
He briefly wondered what it would do for the rest of his body, then shook
his head, trying to clear the fog in his head. His mind and memory kept
casting back to the moments when House had had his hands on Wilson,
reliving the feeling of the other man's skin under his, the feel of the
muscles and bones. He fancied he could feel the entropy of the living
cells under his fingertips, the rush of blood through veins and tissues,
flooding his own skin and blood with some essence of Wilson, taking some
of the man into himself.

He blinked rapidly. Damn Cuddy. Now that he had touched Wilson, he wanted
to do it again and again and keep doing it, if this was the feeling he got
from it.

His pager buzzed. He was needed in the clinic. Of course.

Wait, this might be useful. He considered the possibilities of running
simultaneous experiments and decided it would be worth it, just this once.

* * *

House had just sat down on the sofa with the box of pizza when a knock
sounded at the door and a key scraped in the lock.

'You have lousy timing,' he growled without turning around. 'The pizza's
already here and paid for.'

'Then I have wonderful timing,' Wilson shot back, smiling as he dropped
onto the sofa beside House. 'And you now have beer as well.'

House grunted and accepted the proffered bottle. 'Okay, you're forgiven.'
And for a long time the only sounds were chewing and swallowing, and the
tinny noise from the television as it extolled the virtues of large trucks
crushing smaller ones.

When they were finished Wilson rose to take the leftovers and plates and
empty bottles into the kitchen. House rose to follow him, watching as he
tried to balance the empties and box and plates all together.

'You could help, you know,' Wilson said over his shoulder.

'True, I could.' House paused in the doorway, leaning on his cane. 'So I
experimented on clinic patients today.'

'Why am I not surprised?' Wilson managed to get everything onto the
counter without breakage and turned around to make an exasperated face.
'What did you do to them this time?'

'I touched them.' House waited to see Wilson's reaction.

'Seriously? You actually touched ... No, never mind. And?' Wilson made an
impatient 'come on, out with it' motion with his hand as he moved past
House and back into the living room.

'And it wasn't the same.' House followed again, trailing behind as Wilson
headed back toward the couch.

Wilson stopped walking. 'The same as what?'

'The same as touching you,' House said, sidling up behind Wilson, waiting
for him to turn around.

Instead, Wilson walked away, drifting toward the bookshelves on the other
side of the room. 'So you were experimenting on me too then?' he said, not
looking back at House.

'Only a little,' replied House, changing course and following him once
again to the bookshelves.

Wilson whirled around. 'Don't experiment on me,' he said, brown eyes
boring into House with a ferocity he'd never seen before.

'Would it make you feel any better if I said I was experimenting on me?'
House said after a moment.

'No, why?'

House waved his hand distractedly. 'Something Cuddy said. Doesn't matter.
The point is, I've discovered something. Well, two somethings.'

Wilson covered his eyes with his hand. 'I don't suppose there's any way I
could get you to not tell me, is there?'

'Nope. First discovery is, you like being touched.' House let it drop and
waited to see if Wilson would pick it up.

'Most people do. And by people here I mean not you. I know you don't. And
what the hell does that have to do with anything anyway?' Hands on his
hips now, Wilson's leg was jiggling like he wanted to pace but didn't have
the room, with House standing right in front of him.

'Second discovery is, I like to touch you,' House said quietly, not
looking Wilson in the face.

That did it, Wilson froze, motionless. He'd even stopped breathing. His
mouth worked, open and shut, but nothing came out. His eyes went wide,
darting frantically from House's face to his hands, to the room behind him
and back. His hand flopped uselessly at his side.

House moved in closer, propping his cane against the bookshelf behind
Wilson, and brought his hands up to Wilson's shoulders. He stroked the
back of his knuckles along Wilson's cheek, lips quirking when Wilson's
eyes slammed shut and he turned his face into the touch. 'Am I wrong?' he
whispered. 'Do you not like this?'

Wilson's breath ghosted over House's face and he heard a small, breathy
'No...'

'Which one? No, I'm wrong, or no, you like this?' House said, his lips
moving against Wilson's ear.

'Not wrong...' Wilson replied, turning his head from the knuckles on his
cheek to the lips on his ear and back again.

'I'm never wrong,' House replied, more through habit than anything else,
and then put his lips to better use, trailing kisses down Wilson's jaw
until he found Wilson's lips.

Now this, THIS was even better than a hand on the shoulder. House's
fingers had been tingling while they were stroking Wilson's face, but now
his lips were tingling and the rest of him was on fire. He pushed up close
to Wilson's body, trying to find as many points of contact as possible
only to be frustrated by clothes and Wilson's hands, pushing against him.

'Wait!' Wilson's breathy exclamation took him by surprise and he
floundered backwards, suddenly very self-conscious. His leg flared pain up
and down and he nearly stumbled, but Wilson's strong, sure hands grabbed
at his shoulders and held him upright.

'No, okay, sure,' House mumbled, turning his head away and attempting
escape.

'House, shut up.' Wilson stepped into House's personal space this time and
held him against his chest, Wilson's lips in House's ear, a mirror of
before. 'I just think we should maybe go somewhere more comfortable and
horizontal.' House lifted his head and turned to face Wilson. 'Far be it
for me to interrupt your journey to enlightenment. By all means, let the
touching continue.' House could feel Wilson's smile against the skin of
his throat.

Wilson pressed House's cane into his hand, then pushed him lightly toward
the bedroom, following closely behind.

House stopped when he reached the side of the bed, turned around and
waited for Wilson to catch up. He'd stopped at the door of the bedroom and
stood, just looking at House. Slowly he approached, his eyes dark with
lust and want, making House shudder with sudden desire. Wilson worked
quickly, stripping off his own shirt, pants, everything, and dropping it
all in a messy pile on the floor, then pulled harshly at House's own
shirt, shoving at the pants and boxers, until everything was gone. He
stood in front of House, chest heaving, body vibrating, hard cock
glistening and bobbing with each heartbeat. His Adams apple moved as he
swallowed.

'House,' he whispered, making him tear his eyes away from Wilson's
quivering body and look up, 'touch me.'

And with that, House was undone.

He growled low in his throat and lunged for Wilson, turning slightly so
that they landed on the bed and bounced, House on top, while he plunged
his tongue into Wilson's mouth, biting at his lips, roaming his hands over
every inch of skin he could reach, thrusting raggedly against Wilson's
belly in a lopsided attempt to gain some traction.

'House, wait,' Wilson panted, pushing House off of him and over onto his
side. 'I want to touch you too.'

House groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, struggling for some semblance of
control. He heaved a long, slow breath and then blinked his eyes open,
searching out Wilson's face in the dark, leaned forward and touched his
lips to the other man's, gently but firmly. He let his hands roam, gentler
this time, softer but with no less purpose, over Wilson's shoulders, his
arms, down his chest and over his stomach. Wilson returned the favour,
caressing his strong fingers over House's arms, outlining muscles, drawing
random patterns on his back.

Eventually Wilson grasped hold of House's hand and guided it downward,
curling the other man's fingers around his cock and guiding his hand up
and down. He whispered against House's lips, 'God, touch me,' and House
moaned raggedly against Wilson's neck, taking up the rhythm that Wilson
set and added a twist of his own at the top of the stroke. Wilson's breath
left him in a rushed gasp and his body shuddered under House's hands and
lips. Soft cries of 'Oh! Yes! Like that!' escaped his lips along with
pants and groans until his hips bucked unsteadily toward House's. His back
arched and he threw his head back, a wordless shout wrenching from his
throat.

House felt a warm wetness covering his belly and slowed his strokes,
loosening his grip a little, letting Wilson ride out the sensation until
he felt Wilson pull his hips away. House considered staying put and
letting him ride the too-much-pleasure knife-edge but decided to let the
man recover instead. It didn't take long.

'My turn,' Wilson whispered, bringing his face back to House's and
mouthing his way over House's jaw and down his throat. 'I want to touch
you.'

House shivered. He felt Wilson's hand rubbing small circles over his
shoulder, down his arm and onto his back, his thumb brushing lightly over
his waistline and down to his hip bone before coming down in front of him
and dragging his fingertips over his straining cock. The first touch of
Wilson's fingers made his eyesight fuzz out and sparks shoot up his spine.
He gasped and let out an embarrassingly high-pitched whine.

Wilson smiled and bit down lightly on House's shoulder, working his way up
his neck to his ear again, and tightened his grip on House's dick,
speeding up considerably. House gasped again and began panting. His eyes
rolled back in his head and he lost feeling in his fingers and toes as the
blood rushed to his head and his groin. Wilson dragged his thumb over the
head of House's cock and House cried out to the ceiling, moaning and
thrashing his head from side to side.

Soon House felt the coil of white-hot need uncurling in his belly and it
exploded outward, zinging up his back and down his legs, out through his
arms and into his brain. He came hard, adding to the wetness on his belly,
shot after shot until he thought it would never stop. His voice was choked
and harsh when he cried, 'Wilson!' and clutched for the other man's
shoulders spasmodically.

Eventually he stopped shuddering and became aware of Wilson's arms around
him, cradling his head against his shoulder and stroking his fingers down
House's back, whispering, 'I've got you, I've got you, it's okay.' House
licked his lips and pushed back slightly, his eyes quizzical and his
eyebrows drawn together.

'Well,' Wilson whispered, answering the unasked question, 'you didn't seem
like yourself for a minute, I figured I'd help ground you.' His lips drew
up into a small smile. House nodded vaguely and nuzzled back into Wilson's
neck.

'I've never come that hard, I think,' House said, his voice low and
reverent. 'I don't know what...'

'Yeah, I know,' Wilson replied. 'Me too.'

They stayed entwined in each other for uncountable minutes, neither one
willing to be the one to break the embrace. Their breathing evened out and
became regular once more, their skin cooled as the sweat evaporated. Their
bellies became sticky and cold. Finally, Wilson pulled away and reached
down for something to attempt a clean-up with. He came back with a t-shirt
and proceeded to swipe ineffectually at the mess. House took it away and
tossed it back on the floor, pulling Wilson back into his arms.

'Well then,' Wilson attempted a casual tone. 'What do you want to do now?'

House grinned. 'Touch me again?'  
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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.