Archive of Our Own

One

House pushed open the front door to the hospital Friday morning and scanned the room for hormone-ridden administrators and meddlesome colleagues as he headed for the elevators. Negative on the first, but Wilson was flipping through folders at the admissions desk.

Wilson caught sight of him too, scooped up his papers and strolled over. "I called you last night," he said. "Everything okay?"

House thought back to the previous evening. He'd had to stop playing piano while the phone rang. He'd listened to Wilson's completely forgettable message at some point later and then erased it. "Didn't sound like anybody was dying. I was busy."

Wilson made a face that suggested he should have expected as much. "Doing what--looking at porn?"

"Ouch. Someone's cranky this morning." House jabbed the "up" button with the end of his cane. "And so early."

"Yes, what are you doing here before noon?"

"Secret rendezvous with Cuddy."

"Right. Isn't her office over there?" He pointed behind them.

"Gotta freshen up first. Figure I'll make sure my patient's still alive while I'm up there."

"You diagnosed endocarditis, right? He should be better by today."

"'Should be' doesn't always translate to 'actually is' in my department, if you haven't noticed," House said. He caught Wilson checking his watch. "Cuddy pencil you in too?"

"Have a patient, end-stage lung cancer, about to go off the ventilator. The family wants me there."

"Sounds like fun."

The elevator arrived. They stepped apart to let out a pale and solemn-looking couple in their twenties. Then House got in.

"See you for lunch?" Wilson asked.

"Yep. Happy plug-pulling," he called as the elevator doors closed.

The last thing House saw was Wilson rolling his eyes.

Two

Eleven o'clock, and House was irritable. The endocarditis had cleared, but instead of the complete recovery the team had expected after the antibiotics and corticosteroids they'd administered, the kid's fever had risen to 104 degrees and stayed there, sending them back to the whiteboard. They were down to nondescript but persistent symptoms, his least favorite to work with. Fever, vomiting, malaise, myalgia, headache.

Cameron was the first to speak up. "Lupus can present with everything here, and it's been known to cause endocarditis."

"Lupus would probably be responding to the steroids," Foreman countered. "Staph infection or gonorrhea are far more likely."

"Septicemia," Cameron offered next. "Maybe he just needs more antibiotics."

"Could be Q fever," Chase said. "People back home used to get that sometimes and they had the same symptoms."

House made an appreciative face. "Rare and has a cool name. Too bad our city college boy hasn't been partying with sheep and cows for the last two months. What else, people?"

They worked through more possible diagnoses and compiled a list beside the symptoms on the board.

"Could also be cancer," House concluded, adding it to the bottom. "Where's Wilson?" He glanced at the clock; it was past time for Dr. Predictable's mid-morning cup of coffee.

"One of his patients just died," Cameron said. "I saw him with the woman's husband and kids on my way back from Keith's room."

"Didn't he lose one earlier?" Chase asked.

"Do we care?" asked Foreman. "We have a 21-year-old who's still alive, but he might not be for much longer if we don't figure out what's causing his fever."

"Fine," House said. "Do an ANA for the lupus, double his current antibiotics to counteract possible septicemia, and give him penicillin in case it's one of the infections. Page me when something changes."

As the trio filed out, Cuddy came in.

"Baby-making time?" House asked.

"Clinic. You're an hour late." When he opened his mouth, she cut him off. "I saw you send your little helpers scurrying to run tests. You can go to the clinic." He tried to protest a second time and she overrode him again. "Now. And this time, you will actually see some patients while you're down there."

Three

House spent two agonizing hours diagnosing stuffy noses, sprained ankles and hemorrhoids before he escaped Cuddy's clutches and slipped away to the cafeteria.

He found Wilson at a table near the far wall. He must have just sat down; his salad had hardly been touched and the plastic wrap was still on his sandwich.

"Hey," House said, dropping down opposite him.

"Hey," Wilson replied. He didn't sound particularly glad to see him and he didn't smile, just poked at his food.

House scrunched his mouth to one side. "What's the matter with you? That time of the month?"

Wilson grimaced. "Lost three patients this morning."

"You sleeping with any of them?"

"Let's see, would that be the 84-year-old, the guy on dialysis with pneumonia, or the woman whose family didn't leave her bedside from the minute she was admitted?"

"Ageist and sexist. Not bad. At least you stayed away from the married one."

Wilson gave him a half-hearted glare before rooting around in his salad with his fork.

That wasn't the reaction House had been hoping for, so he tried a different tack. "Well, like I always say, when the terminal cases give up, head down to the hospital cafeteria for some truly gourmet cuisine. Nothing says 'mourning for a patient' like a pile of wilted lettuce."

"Oh, you're one to offer advice," Wilson said, stabbing an apparently offensive piece of tomato and sounding relieved to have an excuse to release some tension. "When was the last time you lost a patient?"

House hardly had to pause. "MALT lymphoma mom."

"Doesn't count, that was her decision." He struck again before he had finished chewing. "And technically she was my patient by then."

"The cop with amoebiasis."

"Okay, and before him? We're talking...October? September?"

"November."

"So you lose maybe a handful a year. You could probably rattle them all off right now. I gave up trying to keep track of mine years ago." He frowned. "I've probably lost more patients than you've had patients in the last five years."

"And you've also cured more, so can we drop the self-pity now? Plus, your logic is backwards. Losing patients all the time is supposed to numb you to it."

Wilson let his fork clatter to his plate. A few heads turned, then turned away again when their owners saw House at the table. "Just because you've found the key to not letting any patient get to you doesn't mean we all want to," Wilson snapped.

Whoa. "You should be having this conversation with Cameron," he said. "The two of you could co-chair a faculty Care Bears committee."

"Yeah, great. I don't know why I talk to you sometimes." Wilson wiped his mouth, threw his napkin onto his tray and pushed his chair back.

House's beeper went off.

"Don't get up," he said, checking the display even though he knew who it was. "My team calls." He pushed his own chair back and grabbed his cane. Wilson started to say something. "Love to stay and argue," he interrupted, "but I've got patients to save."

Four

Eight hours later the kid still wasn't responding to any of the treatment adjustments, his diarrhea had returned thanks to the double dose of antibiotics, and now he was starting to cough. The team was gathered in the Diagnostics office doing another differential when House saw Wilson striding past. He called to him.

Wilson stopped in the doorway but didn't step inside. He practically radiated anxiety. House frowned. "How'd those tests turn out?"

"All negative," Wilson said flatly. "Your kid doesn't have cancer." He started to leave.

"Whoa, whoa, what's the rush? Don't you want to join in the fun? I know how much you love playing the fifth Beatle."

Wilson opened his mouth and held up the hand that wasn't holding his clipboard to his chest. Then he lowered his hand, closed his mouth, shook his head, and kept walking.

House made a face. "What's up with him?" he asked his disinterested audience.

"Kevin's liver is enlarged," Chase repeated, since House hadn't responded the first time he'd said it.

House decided it was time to make one of his semi-annual bedside visits. He enlisted Foreman to distract the hovering parents so he could confront the kid alone and instructed Cameron and Chase to wait in the office.

He was in and out of the patient's room within five minutes. He snagged Foreman, walked back to his office and announced what he'd learned. "Run the antibody tests, and when they come back positive, put him on tetracycline," he ordered. "And somebody tell the boyfriend's family they need to clean their barn."

House lounged around the office playing Gameboy until word came back that Kevin's fever was going down. At 10:30, buoyed by the satisfaction of having solved another case, he slipped into his jacket, slung his backpack over one shoulder and stepped into the hallway to lock up.

As he was adjusting his iPod earbuds for the ride home, he heard a man further down the hallway say, "Good night, Dr. Wilson" before a door closed. A few moments later, Brown rounded the corner. House nodded as the man passed him on his way to the elevators.

House walked in the opposite direction, pulling the earbuds out and slipping them into his pocket. He stopped in front of Wilson's office and opened the door.

Sure enough, Wilson was doing paperwork at his desk when everyone else had gone home--or, more accurately, he was leaning his elbows on his paperwork, staring at the desk with his hands buried in his hair.

House let the door close behind him.

"Your wife already left you; there's no reason to hide here anymore," he said as he strolled past the desk to drop his backpack on the couch.

Wilson raised his head in his hands. His eyes looked terrible, all bleary and red-rimmed. "Taking a break from the case?" he asked, sounding as weary as he looked.

"Patient's fine. Well, he will be."

"What's he got?"

"Q fever."

Wilson's eyebrows drew together. "Didn't you say he goes to Drexel? And that his parents live in Philadelphia too? Not many sheep around there, unless he works at the zoo."

"You're gonna love this one."

Wilson propped his chin up on his right hand and bounced his fountain pen against his desk in his left. "Who lied?"

"Patient. Idiot has a boyfriend he didn't tell his all-American parents or his clearly homophobic diagnostics team about. Boyfriend's family has a dairy farm. The two of them have been having sex in the barn loft every weekend."

"Huh."

"He said they use condoms, so he thought it didn't matter that he didn't say anything. Figures--the one pair of gay college students in the country who have safe sex, and it's in a barn contaminated with bacteria."

Wilson "hmm"ed again. "The other family's got to get checked out."

"Cameron's taking care of it." He took a few steps closer to the desk. "Got any plans tonight?"

"I have a lot of paperwork to do," he said, mood visibly dimming again.

"Yeah, those dying people. Such a nuisance with all the forms to fill out. That's why I always make Chase and Cameron do it."

Wilson gave him half a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Four in one day; that may be a personal record."

"You said three."

"The fourth happened right before you accosted me about those tests."

"And that's why you've been miserable all day?"

"Is it so difficult to believe I actually care about my patients?"

"Of course not. You're the Mother Teresa of the Oncology Department, ready to give everything he has for the benefit of those in need."

Wilson rolled his eyes.

"But you lose patients all the time and it doesn't affect you like this. What's really going on?"

"You don't think I can be this upset over just a bunch of patients."

"I don't think you're this upset right now over 'just a bunch of patients.'"

"You're going to hound me until I confess something."

"Yes."

Wilson put down his pen a little more forcefully than was warranted.

"Fine. I'm thirty-seven years old going on three divorces, living in an apartment by myself, and you're the best friend I have. I did something stupid with Grace that could've cost me my job. Brown is threatening to transfer to Sloan-Kettering, which I didn't just tell you, I had to deliver a terminal diagnosis to the parents of a two-year-old, and now I've managed to lose a nice chunk of my caseload in a single day." He rubbed his face.

Oh, damn.

Damn, damn, damn.

House felt a surge of sympathy and concern tug at his gut. It was the same one he'd succumbed to when Cameron had been exposed to HIV. When Foreman had caught the mystery bug. When Chase had lost the celiac baby. When Cuddy had looked at him and assumed he'd spill her secret to his friend. When Wilson had shown up on his doorstep with a suitcase and a pained smile. The one that made him want to help and almost--almost--made him sorry for being his usual asshole-ish self.

He tried to hold it at bay.

Wilson said, "Did you even ask because you care or did you just want to appease your curiosity?"

House refocused. "Is there a difference?"

Wilson shook his head and picked up his pen again. "It's been a miserable day. I want to finish these and go home."

"So you can be aw awone in your cold, lonely apartment and wallow in your midlife crisis soul-searching?"

"Yes, that's the general idea."

"Well, it's a bad idea. Go out, have a few beers, get laid, do your usual thing, whatever that is. Don't sit in your office brooding. That's my schtick."

"I'm not brooding, I'm doing my job."

"It's a Friday night. Most people with your problems aren't sitting in the dark at work; they're out at strip joints stuffing twenties into women's thongs hoping for a lap dance. We could follow their excellent lead."

"I don't want a hooker!" Wilson said with the quick exasperation that told House he'd touched a nerve. "I want--" He stopped.

Here we go, House thought.

"I want--" Wilson began again. He straightened some folders. Then all the fight drained out of him and he sank back in his chair. "Someone who cares," he finished.

Concern nudged at House once more. He willed it down but knew it was futile; he'd have to do something to ease his conscience. "You really are maudlin tonight," he said.

"Yeah."

"Burnout," House decided.

"Bad day," Wilson insisted. "It gets to you sometimes. Well, maybe not to you, but to normal people."

"Why don't you take some time off?"

"It'll pass. Always does."

"I've never seen you this bad."

"I'm not usually around you when it gets this bad."

"You're always around me."

"Not on nights like these."

"Where do you go then? Out bar-hopping to drink away your sorrows? Go home with some busty blonde? Need a woman's touch to take away your pain?"

Wilson began to sputter a protest.

"Ah!" House said with a grin. "You do."

"No, I--Sometimes it helps to have someone there to take my mind off things."

"So, tonight. When you said you're going home and denied wanting to get laid..."

"I meant it. I can handle it myself."

"Oh, I bet you can."

Wilson had the grace to turn a little red at the neck.

"Next thing you're gonna tell me you had all those affairs for the good of your patients. I can see the inspirational headlines now. One of the greatest oncologists in the country owes his mental health and impressive list of publications to the healing power of sex. Mortality rate got you down? One good screw and he's back on his--"

"It's not like that! I know this is hard for you to understand, but some people are cheered up by actual human contact."

"With the proper protection, I hope."

Wilson closed his eyes and rested his forehead on his hand.

House worked things through in his head and began to formulate a solution. "Julie used to 'handle it' for you," he guessed. "But now she's not here."

Wilson said nothing, which was as good as a confirmation.

"And you haven't called Debbie, or whoever else you're flirting with this week," House went on. "You're used to being the provider. You don't know how to handle being the needy one. How to ask a friend for help."

At that, Wilson looked up, incredulous. "I've asked you for help plenty of times! I asked you last night to call me back and you wouldn't even pick up the phone. When I tell you I need to talk, you run the other way."

"I'm not running now."

"No, you're not," Wilson said, slowly, as if just realizing the fact. "Why is that?"

Cornered. He prevaricated. "This is different."

"How?"

"It doesn't involve listening to you whine about your wife."

Wilson did that thing where his eyes flicked back and forth between House's, searching for something.

House was supposed to be the originator of that look, not its recipient. He allowed it for a few moments before raising his eyebrows.

Wilson said, "I don't think this is something you can help me with."

"I beg to differ. If you're going to go home and jerk off and feel sorry for yourself and your poor patients and cry for a world that inflicts cancer on innocents, you may as well stay here and let me do it for you."

"What, cry?"

"No. Jerk you off."

Wilson stilled.

He finally blinked, then blinked a few more times. "I--What?"

"You need some release, your soon-to-be-ex-wife's gone, for once in your life you're unwilling to seduce a nurse or rescue a waif, and you're much more fun when you aren't moping." In case that sounded too heartfelt, he added with exaggerated assurance, "Don't worry; this doesn't mean we're gay."

"House, I don't think--"

"Good idea. Got any lubricant?"

It was a testament to how long Wilson had known him, House thought, that he simply retorted, "In my office?"

"No, in the clinic. Where we can go, if you want this to be a little more public and way kinkier."

This time Wilson paused. In the silence, House felt that he had drawn the proverbial line and that what Wilson said next would determine whether they crossed it or laughed off the whole thing.

When Wilson spoke again, his voice had gone quiet. "I...have some lotion in my desk."

His brown eyes flicked up to meet House's. Wide. Uncertain. He looked younger than usual.

House lowered his head and raised his eyebrows to indicate that Wilson should get the aforementioned lotion out of his desk instead of merely announcing its existence. After a moment, Wilson dutifully slid open the top drawer and produced a small plastic jar.

At the same time, House leaned his cane against the couch and slid off his jacket, since he wouldn't be going outside as soon as he'd been planning. He draped the jacket over his backpack and jerked his head at Wilson again, this time motioning him over. "It'll be easier if we're both standing," he explained in response to the questioning look Wilson shot him even as he rose from his chair.

"Back against the wall," he said when Wilson stopped a few feet away.

Wilson walked to the open space between the armchair and the flatscreen TV and turned around to face the room.

House stepped up to him. He distributed his weight along his left side in preparation, leaning on his forearm on the wall and resting his hip just above Wilson's. He didn't hold back, but Wilson didn't seem to mind.

"Gimme," House said, gesturing for the lotion container. Wilson handed it over, put his hands on his belt buckle and raised his eyebrows in query. House raised his back in affirmation.

"'Patented skin rejuvenation formula with shea butter and aloe extract for unequaled softness,'" House read from the lotion label. "I take it back. This doesn't mean I'm gay." At least it was nice to think so, considering the fact that he was about to voluntarily and very non-medically touch his friend's dick. What the hell was he doing?

It helped that Wilson seemed comparably uncomfortable, if the glacial slowness with which he was undoing his belt was any indication.

"Little faster, there, sport, or we'll be here all night," House said. "Have no fear. It's nothing I haven't seen before."

Wilson laughed and it sounded strangled. "Right, because this is an ordinary clinical exam."

"Fine, we can role-play if you want, but I get to be the doctor. You want me to put gloves on?"

Wilson snorted and pulled his belt open. At the next step, though, he hesitated again.

"Here." House pressed the jar of lotion into Wilson's hand, took Wilson's wrists and moved his arms away, batted aside the dangling ends of the belt, unbuttoned Wilson's fly, and pulled the zipper all the way down. Wilson made a quick, soft, unidentifiable noise.

House swiped the lotion back. "There, now, can you do the rest on your own?"

Wilson flashed him a withering glare that lasted long enough for House to notice that his pupils were slightly dilated. Interesting. Wilson accidentally-on-purpose jabbed him in the ribs with his elbow as he tugged his loosened shirt free. Another pause before Wilson took a breath, hooked his fingers into his pants and pushed them down to his hips along with his underwear. That done, he dropped his arms to his sides.

"Okay, then," House said.

He had avoided looking lower than Wilson's shoulders after he'd unzipped the man's pants, so when he glanced down he was surprised to discover that Wilson was already partially erect. Definitely interesting. He glanced at his friend's face, but Wilson was looking resolutely at the wall on his left.

House considered the mechanics of what they were about to do. The shirttails were going to be a problem. He slipped his fingers beneath the shirt and undershirt and lifted them to Wilson's stomach. The bottom of Wilson's tie folded in the process so now it, too, was out of the way.

"Make yourself useful," he said. Wilson held the fabric in place with his left hand.

That settled, House opened the lotion container and dipped two fingers into the cool cream. He screwed the top back on with the clean part of his hand and dropped the jar on the couch behind him without turning around. Then he reached for Wilson's penis.

After a moment in which he wondered at the strangeness of that action, House wiped most of the lotion off his hand and onto Wilson's dick in one downward movement and began to spread it around with a few quick twists of his wrist. Wilson shivered.

"What, no 'Oh my, your fingers are so cold, Dr. House'?" House asked in a high-pitched voice as he worked in the lotion with a slick-sticky sound.

"It wouldn't be entirely inappropriate, since you're treating this like a physical," Wilson said a bit breathlessly. "Mind letting up a little?"

House rubbed more vigorously for a moment just to show that he could, then dropped his speed and pressure to what he hoped was the too-gentle end of the spectrum. "Better, honey?"

He could almost hear Wilson grind his teeth. "Yes, darling, thank you ever so much."

Because Wilson was being such a good sport about it, House pulled at him slightly harder and settled into a leisurely rhythm. "You're too caring for your own good," he murmured. "It makes you a first-rate doctor but it can be hell on the nerves."

Wilson laughed a little. "Be careful, someone might think you've had first-hand experience with this whole... compassion business."

"Shut up. Who were they?"

"Who were who?"

"Two minutes of sexual arousal and the man forgets what's supposedly been bothering him so much he hid in his office after hours."

"My patients?" Wilson said, tensing. "Are you trying to help me forget about today or re-traumatize me?"

"First thing this morning, your ventilator guy. What was his name?"

"I don't want to think about it right now."

He squeezed; Wilson jerked and gasped, and his pupils dilated and retracted. "What was his name?"

"George," he said in a strained voice. "That feels..."

"Lung cancer, right?"

"Yeah. He'd had enough. Wanted to die naturally."

"Okay. That's ordinary. Next."

Wilson tipped his head back against the wall with a groan. Good; he was surrendering. "Reginald Hayes," he said.

"Reg," House guessed.

"He preferred Reginald."

"What happened?"

Wilson's cheeks were starting to flush. He spoke slowly as House stroked him. "Multiple myeloma. We didn't get him till it was everywhere. Renal failure, pneumonia, anemia, the works. He lasted three days after admission this time." His hips pushed forward against House's hand. "He was fifty-six."

House added a slight twist to each pull on Wilson's dick. He was so intent on watching Wilson open his mouth wider and lick his lower lip that it took him a moment to realize it was his turn to speak. "Nothing you could have done," he said. "Who else?"

"Can you hold on...just a minute?"

House let him enjoy his attentions uninterrupted until Wilson was almost fully erect. He shifted his grip. The backs of his fingers brushed the soft skin and crisp hair of Wilson's lower abdomen.

Wilson squirmed. He brought his right hand up to relieve his left in holding his shirt against his stomach. He dropped his other hand to his side, twitched it around a few times restlessly, then raised it again and took hold of House's right sleeve.

"Time's up," House said. "Number three."

Wilson pinched his eyes shut. His brows and forehead twisted in a grimace. It took a few moments for him to manage, "Mary-Ann Miller. Ovarian cancer."

His quickening breaths stretched out his sentences so each one sounded like a story in itself. "She was young.... Left three kids. The middle one is...six years old. Blonde pigtails. Clutched her stuffed pony... and cried. So her...father broke down too." His hand fisted in House's sleeve, pulling the material tight around his upper arm.

House grunted. That was a tough one. "Who else?"

Wilson turned his head away, eyes still closed.

"You said there were four. Who else?"

Wilson shook his head. "I don't wa--"

Without warning, House doubled the speed and intensity of his assault, leaning forward a little more, working his whole arm. His bicep pressed against Wilson's knuckles and his tricep strained within his constricted sleeve with each swift stroke. "Who else?"

"Lukas," Wilson choked out. "Osteosa--sarcoma." His mouth was open, his nose and upper lip beaded with sweat.

"What about him?"

"He was only--seventeen," Wilson panted. The flush in his cheeks had spread to his forehead and neck. "Tall. Beautiful blue eyes.

"He lost his leg--months ago. Got a prosthetic. Was depressed for a while but--he got through it. Was doing well. We played pickup baske--basketball once when he was--in remission--" He stopped, probably to catch his breath.

"But it came back," House prompted.

"Metasta--sized to his lungs." He swallowed. "We did--a thoracotomy. He got an infection."

House swiped his thumb over the head of Wilson's dick at the end of every few jerks. Wilson was gasping now. Their eyes met. Wilson's pupils were huge.

"He was a great kid--reminded me of you--" His voice broke. "God, House--"

Wilson's dick twitched in warning before he orgasmed, making a quiet, urgent noise like a sob. Semen spattered the back of House's hand.

Wilson's head fell forward. Forehead resting on House's right shoulder, he breathed hard--out, warm, in, cool--into House's shirt. He was trembling.

House glanced at the ceiling as if he'd find help there. He murmured into Wilson's hair, which smelled of antiseptic and conditioner, "Okay. Okay, Jimmy. It's okay."

He let go of Wilson's dick but left his arm between them so Wilson could still hold on to him.

Just when he was convincing himself that maybe this whole thing hadn't been so freakishly strange after all, two things happened. He realized he was getting hard. And Wilson tilted his head up, lips dragging along the side of House's neck to the corner of his jaw.

House jerked backwards onto his left leg, hopping a little to keep his balance. "Hey, whoa," he said. His heart was pounding.

Wilson had let go of House's sleeve and stumbled a little when House had removed his support. "Sorry," he said simply, and his tone was so casual--as if they'd bumped elbows in the hall--that the world stopped tilting. Wilson leaned back against the wall.

Covering for his momentary panic, House asked, "You okay?"

"Yeah. Need a minute."

House decided to ignore the soft pulses of arousal emanating from his groin. He stepped back again and took in the sight of Wilson recovering, the contradiction of him. Legs spread slightly and arms loose at his sides, Wilson remained impeccable at the top and bottom--shoes polished and neatly laced; pants pressed; collar straight; tie knotted. His middle, however, was a shock of disarray: pants and briefs around his hips, belt open, shirt and undershirt loose, damp spots pockmarking his shirt and slacks. Standing in the middle of his office, his eyes closed and his mouth open, he looked ridiculous.

House said, "You look ridiculous."

"I'm sure," Wilson replied without opening his eyes.

House needed to clean his hand. He needed to sit down or at least lean on his cane. He needed a Vicodin. He needed a long ride on his bike. He needed to figure out what the hell had just happened. He needed a lot of things, but he settled for the first item on the list for the moment, and looked around for something with which to wipe off the semen and lotion.

There was a small box of tissues on the desk. He whipped out a few and swabbed at the various sticky and slimy substances on his hand. It helped, but he still needed to wash.

Wilson could probably use a shower himself, but he wouldn't be able to leave his office without some preliminary measures. House dropped the tissues into the garbage, grabbed another handful from the box and held them out. "Here," he said. "Clean yourself up."

Wilson took the offering. "Yes, Mom."

"Your mom used to comfort you like this after a bad day? No wonder you have relationship issues."

"No, I only did this with your mom."

When Wilson finished, he crumpled the soiled tissues into a ball and tossed it at the garbage can. It puffed open midway through its arc and landed on the carpet in front of its target. He made an "oh, well" face.

House limped over to the couch to retrieve his cane. With his back to Wilson, he rested his weight on the wood with a small sigh of relief (though his still-slick hand slipped a little on the handle) and closed his eyes. He listened to Wilson tuck himself back in and refasten his pants and belt.

The weirdness reappeared. House turned around to face it.

Wilson's clothes were back in order. Aside from his flushed face and neck, he looked eerily normal.

Wilson gestured toward House's groin. "Do you want me to...?" He left his arm out, hand palm up, fingers half-extended.

There was no way Wilson could see the nascent erection through House's jeans; he was simply offering to reciprocate. House felt a sudden stab of anger, though for what and at whom he didn't immediately know. "No thanks."

Wilson let his arm fall, took a step forward, stopped. "House...I--"

"Don't say anything. I'm going to wash my hand. God knows where that's been." He nodded at Wilson's groin.

Wilson didn't stop him as he pushed past him to the door.

House walked down the hall with a force that made the muscles of his right hand flutter, threatening to cramp, with each lurch onto the cane, his stubborn erection throbbing in his jeans at each step. His hand slipped on the polished wood; he half hoped the thing would slide from his grip, send him tumbling, so he'd have an excuse for a violent outburst. It didn't.

He pushed open the door to the men's room and didn't break stride until he stood at the sink. He leaned the cane against the counter, turned on the hot water and washed his hands for longer than necessary with a generous dollop of soap. He grabbed several paper towels and dried off, then dunked the damp paper under the faucet and wiped his cane clean. When he'd used the towels to turn off the tap and chucked the wad into the garbage slot, he stared at himself in the mirror.

His reflection didn't offer any answers.

He turned around and limped to the urinal. Within the confines of the curved porcelain, he opened his jeans with both hands and eased out his cock, looking down at it as though it belonged to someone else.

There was no way he'd be able to piss in this state. Damn it. Damn Wilson and damn himself and his stupid idea. His hand tightened--he clenched his jaw and squinted against the urge to let his eyelids flutter shut--and he began to tug at himself, just a little, moving the skin slightly up and down in his fist, stifling a groan at the sheer relief despite being alone in the room.

As he touched himself, grip too firm and pace too slow, an all-too-vivid image coalesced in his mind: Wilson, head back, eyes closed, sweating, clutching at him, choking out his name. That sound he'd made when he'd come. The slippery skin of his dick in House's hand. House tried to substitute some of his usual fantasies in its place--Cameron doing a strip-tease in his bedroom--Cuddy finally losing her temper, shoving him into a chair in her office and mounting him--but it was no good; the fresh memory of Wilson kept intruding. He imagined he could still feel Wilson's wet mouth on his neck.

His strokes strengthening, he leaned forward onto his left arm and pivoted slightly so he was standing as he had in Wilson's office. He was definitely getting harder. If he hurried, he would be able to finish, clean up and make it back before the other man suspected anything more than a need to calm his nerves.

The bathroom door opened.

House dropped his chin to his chest and slapped the wall, stilling his hand and swallowing a curse.

"Hey," Wilson said, quietly. House didn't reply.

Wilson walked over to the sink. House stood still and stiff, moving nothing but his eyes, seeing nothing but the crusted plumbing joints and the crumbling bleach tablet in the drain. He listened to Wilson wash and dry his hands and possibly his face. He couldn't pee and he didn't feel like trying to force himself back into his jeans, so he waited. Maybe Wilson would leave without another word, without inquiring as to why House was standing there holding his dick as though he were suddenly too shy to urinate with someone else in the room.

Of course Wilson didn't leave. But he didn't speak either. Instead, he crossed the few feet from the sink to House's urinal, hard rubber heels brushing against the floor. His steps sounded cautious. House was reminded of a gamekeeper approaching a wounded animal on the savannah.

Playing the part of the cornered prey, House did not move. Not even when Wilson stood right behind him. Not even when he touched House's waist.

Only when Wilson reached around and placed his right hand over his own on his cock (Jesus, his skin really was remarkably soft) did House close his eyes. The fingers of his left hand curled against the cool wall.

Wilson rested his lips on House's shoulder. "Show me," he said.

If House had drawn a line earlier with his demand for lube, then Wilson was drawing another one now. This boundary, however, seemed fraught with greater implications since it lacked the rationalization of one friend helping another after a difficult day.

Then Wilson nudged his hand, and the resultant surge of arousal pushed his own hand forward, and then back, and then forward again, pushed him across the line into territory too terrifying to contemplate.

Good thing he wasn't capable of much deep thought at the moment.

He was capable of some thought, though. Strange how Wilson--his hands and breath and body heat and steady gaze (which House couldn't follow but knew was directed at either his face or their hands)--the fact of him there, watching and participating, preserved House's self-awareness during an act that usually allowed him to put his brain on pause.

It also, he noticed, pleasantly intensified his arousal to a level his more potent fantasies and the occasional girls he hired were rarely able to achieve. As an experiment he let himself again remember the look on Wilson's face when he'd orgasmed, and felt his hips push forward slightly in response.

Stranger yet, then, to be turned on by fantasizing about the person currently helping one stroke one's penis.

Wilson didn't say anything when House's hips moved nor when he relaxed back, just kept his hand on his and continued to accompany him in rubbing his dick in slow, short jerks. It had to have been awkward for Wilson to use his non-dominant hand, but he followed House's lead without any apparent difficulty. In fact, he seemed to be very good at this, dextrous and sure, holding on tightly enough to remind House that he was there but loosely enough not to affect his grip.

His mind slipping into its more typical complacent masturbatory meanderings, House wondered whether Wilson's skill resulted from natural talent, private practice or application on others. Wives and mistresses and patients not enough for you to keep your hands off yourself, Jimmy? Or are there some after-school activities with the other boys you haven't told me about?

As if he'd heard House mocking him, Wilson shifted his hand, nudging his fingertips against House's knuckles. House spread his fingers and Wilson slid his own between them.

The doubled surface area and ribbed sensation had an incredible effect on his erection. Breath and strokes quickening, House lowered his head and found himself mesmerized by the sight of their joined fingers--one set pink, smooth and immaculately manicured, the other creased and cane-callused and sprinkled with graying hair--moving in tandem back and forth along his dark, engorged cock.

His higher reasoning was unquestionably shutting down now. It was all he could do to stare at their hands and concentrate on finding the rhythm that would carry him to climax.

When they had held steady for a few minutes, Wilson flexed his hand again. "I've got it," he said, and stroked his thumb across the fleshy part of House's hand between thumb and forefinger--a small gesture of affection that would have startled House half an hour ago but which he accepted now without much difficulty.

House understood that Wilson wanted him to let go, let him take over, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. To stand there and let Wilson touch him unaided--bring him to orgasm--

House's hand spasmed and tightened its grip. He kept stroking. With luck, Wilson would take the hint.

On the contrary, his companion pressed up against him--cheekbone to shoulder, chest to back, crotch to ass--and slid his left arm further around House's ribs so his palm rested flat against his stomach. House closed his eyes, heart thudding.

Wilson almost-kissed his shoulder again. "Let me," he murmured. "I've got you."

House would have cracked some joke about training wheels or physiotherapy if he hadn't thought his voice would break. As it was, he barely managed to give in and stop stroking.

Wilson's hand stilled as well. He lifted it away so House could slide his from his dick. House let his arm rest at his side, then changed his mind and braced both hands on the wall. He felt ridiculous dangling there out in the open, hot flesh throbbing in the cool air.

Wilson had withdrawn slightly to reach into his pocket and pull something out. House opened his eyes as Wilson brought the object forward and around and held it in both hands at House's stomach.

It was the lotion container.

"You brought--" Surprised by how rough he sounded, House cleared his throat and tried again. "You brought it in with you?" Some of the fond pride he felt in Wilson's premeditation seeped into his tone despite his efforts to keep it strictly derisive. He blamed the fact that his brain was only functioning at 20-30% capacity.

"Always prepared," Wilson replied, and House was pleased to hear that his voice was also a little husky. "I wasn't an Eagle Scout for nothing."

That was all the banter House felt capable of, and his dick was going to need attention very soon, so he let Wilson continue in silence.

Chin on House's left shoulder now, still enclosing him in a loose embrace, Wilson unscrewed the jar, scooped out some lotion, closed the container and tossed it to the floor, where it landed with a clack and rolled away in a wobbly curve. House didn't see how far it got because his attention was suddenly focused on Wilson rubbing his hands briskly together--to warm the lotion, he realized--and then wrapping his slick left hand around House's now almost-painful erection. House took a breath and held it.

Wilson began to move with the force and rhythm House had set before. House had no idea how he remembered it so precisely. All he knew was that it felt good. Very, very good. He focused on the pleasure of Wilson's palm and fingers stroking him; it had the side benefit of helping take his mind off the fact that he was feeling far more exposed now that Wilson was touching him directly and far more vulnerable now that he'd relinquished control.

"Good?" Wilson asked at his ear.

House grunted.

They lapsed back into silence as Wilson continued to work at him. When he started pulling slightly harder and faster a few minutes later, House didn't complain.

Wilson's right forearm was pressed against House's ribs with his lotioned hand hovering far enough from his shirt to avoid staining it. Through the fog of arousal, House wondered why he'd bothered rubbing both hands together if one of them was just going to hang there.

His unspoken question was answered soon enough when Wilson slid his arm forward and down and cupped House's balls. House made a noise of appreciation that bled into a second, slightly louder one as Wilson began to gently roll the sac in his palm.

It didn't take long before he found himself thrusting into Wilson's grasp. His fingertips had gone white against the wall and his breath was embarrassingly heavy.

Considering that he'd very recently seen Wilson in the throes of orgasm, though, House figured he didn't need to waste his energy on shame.

That thought brought back the image of Wilson against his office wall, half-sobbing about the death of a boy who'd reminded him of House. Coming into his hand. And that sound he'd made.

Wilson trailed his hand up from House's balls and, without slowing the fervent strokes of his other hand, dragged a fingernail along the slit in his glans.

House's breath caught, then released as he ejaculated into the urinal.

When he was done, he stood with his head bowed, his arms still out straight in front of him, breathing and trying to calm his racing heart.

Wilson let go of him and stepped back. House found that he couldn't turn to look him in the eye. Maybe it was a moot point anyway, because Wilson walked to the sink.

House moved one hand to flush the urinal and kept everything else still. He didn't want to disturb the sleepy mellow afterglow until he absolutely had to, and his leg was probably going to scream bloody murder when he finally moved it after standing in the same position for so long.

Wilson had finished washing his hands, but after he'd dried off House heard him take more paper towels and briefly turn the water on again. He lowered his right arm and straightened in preparation.

Sure enough, Wilson reappeared at his side with a clump of wet towels. "Here," he said.

House took them with a quiet "Thanks." They were warm. He mopped himself clean, or a close approximation thereof, then dropped the wad in the urinal. Lowering his somewhat stiff left arm with a wince, he got himself back into his underwear and jeans and prepared to try to move his legs.

"Here," Wilson said again. This time House turned his head. Once more the image of normalcy, Wilson stood with House's cane in both hands. His eyebrows were slightly raised and his brown eyes were calm.

Wilson's composure calmed him in turn; the niggling anxiety in his chest and coincident urge to laugh subsided. He didn't think he would have reacted as well if he'd detected worry or pity or blatant affection in that gaze.

Without looking away, House reached out and took his cane. He didn't break their gaze until he leaned most of his weight on the cane and tentatively bent his right knee.

It didn't feel fantastic, but it wasn't as bad as he'd feared. Probably mitigated by the orgasm. He flexed it a few more times to make sure it wouldn't cramp or collapse under him, then shifted his weight to it and stretched his left leg.

"How is it?" Wilson asked.

"Need a Vicodin," he said, because it was true and because it would prolong this tranquillity. "Did you stash my pill bottle in your pants too?"

Wilson shook his head, but House's comment must have reminded him about the other item he'd had in his pocket, because he turned around in search of the lotion container on the floor.

"There," House said when he spotted it under the far sink. Wilson went to fetch it.

House made his way over to the counter. He was achy, but it was nothing a Vicodin or two wouldn't take care of soon enough. He washed his hands for what felt like the tenth time that night.

Wilson came back and leaned against the counter, offering House the choice of looking at the back of his head in the mirror or his face right beside him.

"What now?" Wilson asked.

Half a dozen random and incompatible scenarios flashed through House's mind: the two of them walking down the hall unable to think of anything to say; making out on his couch in front of the TV; continuing to meet for lunch and movies and intrude in each other's personal and professional lives as if nothing had happened; jerking each other off again in an exam room in the middle of the day; avoiding each other at work until his fellows demanded to know what was going on; getting drunk and fucking in his bed.

"Dunno," he said, blinking away that last image with some difficulty. It was too soon, and he was too tired, for complex extrapolation.

"Well, you'd better come back to my office at least. Your stuff's still in there."

House grunted, staring into the middle distance. Then he straightened and regarded Wilson head to toe. "You'll probably want to hit the showers," he said. "You stink." It wasn't strictly true (though there was a vague muskiness about him), but the man had to have felt at least as sticky as he did, and Wilson had been sweating more.

Wilson smirked. "I'm not the only one."

"I smell of soap and girly hand lotion that I hope to soon be complementing with the faint but unmistakable aroma of Vicodin," House declared, knowing Wilson wouldn't protest that Vicodin had no scent. He walked to the door.

Wilson caught up and fell into step with him a few feet into the hallway. "You rent anything good for the weekend?"

"Nope; haven't sent the last batch back yet. Don't you have dead people paperwork?"

"It can wait until Monday."

House glanced over to find that Wilson was already looking at him hopefully. "I TiVo'd the whole week's worth of General Hospital. A six-pack and a pizza will earn you a couch cushion all to yourself."

House didn't miss the spark of--delight? relief?--in Wilson's eyes. So he hadn't been the only one wondering whether anything had changed tonight.

"Conte's?" Wilson asked.

"Extra cheese and pepperoni."

"Done."

"Good. I'm starving."

They reached Wilson's office. House opened the unlocked door himself, flicked on the light and went straight for the pills in his jacket.

Wilson closed the door behind them. "Just give me a minute to tidy up," he said.

House decided to take only one Vicodin. After he'd swallowed it and slipped the container back into his pocket, he sat on the couch and passed his cane from one hand to the other between his legs.

As Wilson neatened his desk, House took a quiet breath and sought an answer to the question that had been pressing at him for a while now. "Are we gonna do this every time you have a bad day?"

The sound of papers shuffling paused for a moment, then resumed. "That would be up to you, wouldn't it?"

No way was Wilson going to foist the decision on him without first revealing his opinion. "You did half the work," he shot back.

Wilson tapped a pile of folders against his blotter to line up the edges. "I...wouldn't be opposed to doing this again," he said at last. It was clear from his tone that that was a gross understatement. House had his answer.

He weighed the potential advantages of such an arrangement against the possibility of screwing things up irrevocably between them. The myriad scenarios in which they might find themselves sooner or later flashed through his head again. He nodded. "Okay."

"Okay," Wilson echoed. He opened and shut a desk drawer and pushed in his chair. "I'm done here. I have a change of clothes in my car."

"Why am I not surprised?" House said as he got up and put on his jacket and backpack.

Wilson likewise donned his suit jacket and slung his briefcase over his shoulder. He gestured for House to precede him out the door.

Wilson locked his office while House got a head start down the hallway. They walked to the elevator, waited, and rode down in silence. The reception area was empty and Cuddy's office dark. They crossed the room and pushed open the glass doors at the entrance.

On the cement path out front, Wilson turned to House. "We don't only have to do it on bad days," he ventured. He followed that up with a quirky little smile.

House didn't smile back, but he could feel his lips twitch and the muscles around his eyes relax. "Go get dinner," he said.

Wilson's smile broadened. "See you back at your place."

House watched him walk off to his car. Then he turned and started towards the handicapped spaces, swinging his keys once in his left hand.