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  The Crazy Thing 
 by marginaliana  

 The crazy thing was, House couldn't tell whether Wilson meant what he was
implying, or whether he was just fucking with House's mind.

There were the gentle touches on his arm or his back as Wilson passed by
in the hallway (not the helping kind of touches, which would only have
irritated him, but the touching kind of touches); the glint in Wilson's
eye as he licked grease from his fingers in the cafeteria; the way Wilson
would occasionally smile and stretch and loosen his tie in the most
unbelievably sensual manner. But then when House stepped closer, Wilson
would step away, the corner of his mouth twisted up into something
approaching a smirk; and when House raised a questioning eyebrow, Wilson
would only roll his eyes and change the subject.

The crazier thing was, House's inability to figure it out almost
heightened the attraction.

Wilson was playing him. Wilson was deliberately messing with him and it
was working. House had wanted Wilson for a long time, though he'd firmly
suppressed the idea. But now he'd had two weeks of feeling horny and
unsure and trying to decide whether he wanted to risk it.

Because that had to be what Wilson wanted, if he wanted anything at all
other than to drive House insane. It had to be that he wanted a
declaration, wanted House to put his emotions and his dignity on the line.


And the smugness was attractive, dammit. It was attractive because a smug
Wilson was happy and relaxed and alive; because Wilson's eyes were warm
when they looked at House; because the idea of replacing that subtle smirk
with a look of surprised pleasure was a worthy challenge for a not-quite
misanthropic genius. 

When a man starts thinking in voice-overs, thought House, you know he's in
love. Dammit. But even his mental voice had lost its sting. Over on the
other end of the couch, Wilson licked at the kung pao sauce on his bottom
lip and House felt his own mouth draw up into a smile almost against his
will.

"You find Chase's chances with the new radiologist that laughable?" said
Wilson, smiling, and House's breath caught. Before he knew it he was
leaning over, swiping his thumb across Wilson's soft mouth. 

"House," Wilson breathed, and the smugness melted away into wariness, as
if something inside him were coiled and ready to strike. But he only
swallowed and stayed still, waiting. 

It was a long moment before House could propel the words out of his
throat. "I... Wilson." He choked and looked away, sliding his hand around
to cup Wilson's cheek. What could he say? "I want you" seemed somehow
inadequate, given that he was putting the only solid relationship he had
on the line. At the same time, "I love you" was inanity, the kind of thing
Wilson had said to his wives. House wasn't sure he wanted to be in the
same category. This wasn't like that.

But if he didn't say something soon, this would slip away. House took a
deep breath and forced his eyes back up to Wilson's. 

"Stay with me," he said quietly. "Tonight, or... as long as you want."

And that must have been enough, because Wilson was turning his head,
pressing those delicious lips against House's palm. House could feel
Wilson's smile.

"Say 'please,'" Wilson murmured playfully, and House snorted. Then Wilson
slid closer and at last they were kissing, all the uncertainty dissipating
into a warm haze of sensual feeling. Wilson's hot tongue slid against his
mouth and House moaned, feeling himself harden more quickly than he had
since he was 20. He tugged at Wilson's shirt, wanting the smooth firmnes
of Wilson's bare skin under his hands. 

"God," said Wilson, arching backwards and pressing his erection into
House's thigh. He braced himself against the couch with one hand while the
other caressed House's chest. 

"Please," said House, surprising himself with the sincerity of the plea.
Wilson must have been surprised, too, because he gasped and ground down
against House's cock while leaning in for another hard and fast kiss.

A few more minutes of Wilson's lithe body against his own and House was
driven to the edge. He cupped Wilson's ass in both hands as he came,
pulling the other man closer.

"God, yes," he hissed, and then Wilson was coming too, shuddering in
House's arms.

After a long few moments, Wilson lifted his head. "Should go to bed," he
mumbled.

"Mmm," grunted House, but nodded, helping Wilson roll off him safely. "You
staying?" He tried not to be anxious about the answer.

"You idiot," Wilson murmured, levering House upwards. "You want to know
where you stand. Of course I'm staying."

House felt something in his chest loosen and he gave Wilson a playful
shove. "Get in there, then." 

Wilson stepped towards the doorway, then turned, favoring House with a
smirk. "But just because I'm staying," he said, "doesn't mean you get to
take it easy. I'm going to keep you on your toes."

"Can we have this discussion later?" House whined. "I'm trying to ogle
your ass at the moment." Wilson snorted and slipped into the bedroom.
House waited until he was out of sight before letting a smile take over
his face.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," he whispered, and moved to join Wilson
in the bed.  
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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 Fox Television, 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.