Archive of Our Own ^beta

“For God’s sake, House, if you’re going to do it, just do it properly.”

The words hung in the stale hospital air, a stark contrast to Wilson’s usually measured tone. His back was to House, his shoulders tense beneath the fine wool of his suit jacket. House’s fingers were still tangled in the soft brown strands at the nape of Wilson’s neck.

House’s other hand, braced on his cane, shifted his weight. A slow, predatory grin spread across his face. “Properly? You’ll have to be more specific, Wilson. Medical terminology only, please. Are we talking about a firm grip? A sustained pull? A sudden, sharp—“

“Stop talking,” Wilson ground out, his voice thick. He didn’t pull away. He pressed back, just a fraction, into the contact.

An hour earlier, the dynamic had been its usual combative ballet. They were in the diagnostics office, whiteboards smeared with failed theories about a ten-year-old ballet dancer with unexplained lesions.

“It’s not cancer,” Wilson stated, tossing the latest biopsy report onto the cluttered desk. “The markers aren’t right. You’re chasing ghosts.”

“Ghosts are more fun than sarcoidosis,” House replied, not looking up from the MRI film he was holding to the light. “And you’re wrong. The inflammation pattern is a red herring. It’s a presentation. A weird, sneaky, bastard of a presentation, but it’s cancer.”

“Your evidence is a hunch. My evidence is a pathology report. I’ll take science over your mystical vibes, thanks.”

House finally lowered the film, his blue eyes sharp. “Your science is a snapshot. It’s a single frame of a movie. You’re looking at a still of a car and declaring it will never crash.” He limped around the desk, stopping too close to Wilson, invading the carefully maintained bubble of his personal space. “You have to look at the trajectory.”

Frustrated, House gestured at the whiteboard with his cane. “The fever spikes coincide with the pain in her joints, not the skin eruptions. The cancer is irritating the synovial fluid, the body is throwing everything at it, and that’s causing the dermal inflammation. The lesions are a symptom of a symptom.”

“That’s a house of cards,” Wilson argued, turning to face him, his expression one of professional exasperation. “You’re building a entire diagnosis oncoincidence.”

“It’s not coincidence!” House’s voice rose, and in a gesture of pure, aggravation, his free hand shot out. He didn’t shove Wilson. He didn’t grab his arm. His fingers, driven by an impulse he didn’t bother to examine, closed in the soft, perfectly styled hair just above Wilson’s collar.

He gave a firm, impatient tug. “It’s cause and effect.”

And Wilson sounded.

It wasn’t a gasp. It wasn’t a grunt of annoyance. It was a deep, throaty, utterly unexpected moan that seemed to vibrate through the hand still fisted in his hair. The sound was pure, unadulterated pleasure. Wilson’s eyes fluttered shut for a fraction of a second, his jaw going slack. A flush, warm and immediate, crept up his neck.

House froze. The medical argument evaporated from his mind, replaced by a far more intriguing diagnostic puzzle. He watched, rapt, as Wilson’s professional composure cracked and something far more raw shimmered beneath the surface. The sharp, clean scent of Wilson’s shampoo filled the small space between them.

House’s grip didn’t loosen. He shifted it, experimentally, tightening his fingers just enough to pull Wilson’s head back a precise degree. Wilson’s breath shuddered out of him. His hands, which had been gesturing with firm denial moments before, now hung limp at his sides, curling into loose fists.

“Well,” House said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate rumble that was usually reserved for mocking patients. “That’s a fascinating new development.”

Wilson’s eyes opened. They were dark, pupils blown wide, the brown almost black with a shock of desire that mirrored the one currently igniting House’s blood. He looked caught, exposed, and aroused.

“House…” It was a warning, but it lacked any heat. It was a plea disguised as a protest.

“Don’t ‘House’ me,” he murmured, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind Wilson’s ear. “The differential diagnosis just got a lot more interesting. Exhibit A: Involuntary vocalization upon follicular stimulation. Exhibit B: Vasodilation leading to visible cutaneous flushing.” He leaned closer, his lips nearly brushing the shell of Wilson’s ear. “Exhibit C: Pupillary dilation suggesting intense autonomic nervous system arousal. My diagnosis… you like this.”

Wilson said nothing. He just looked at House, his chest rising and falling too fast. The silence was more damning than any admission.

Which brought them to now. Wilson, backed against the desk, asking for it properly.

“Stop talking,” Wilson had said. So House did.

He obeyed. He released his cane, letting it clatter against the linoleum, and brought his other hand up, burying both fists in Wilson’s hair. This wasn’t a tug of frustration. This was intentional. Purposeful. He fisted the thick strands and pulled, a steady, demanding pressure that arched Wilson’s back, bowing him backwards like a drawn arrow.

Wilson’s mouth fell open on a silent cry, his hands flying up to grip the desk to anchor himself. His whole body trembled with the force of the sensation.

“Is this specific enough for you?” House’s voice was gritted with a hunger he’d never allowed himself to feel. He used his hold to maneuver Wilson, turning him and pressing his front against the cold edge of the desk. He leaned over him, his chest to Wilson’s back, and tugged again, exposing the long, elegant line of Wilson’s throat.

House dipped his head and scraped his teeth over the pounding pulse there. Wilson jolted against him, a full-body spasm of pleasure, a broken, guttural sound tearing from his chest. The taste of his skin, clean sweat and expensive soap, flooded House’s senses.

One hand stayed twisted in Wilson’s hair, maintaining that exquisite, controlling pressure. The other hand slid down, over the starched cotton of his dress shirt, mapping the frantic rhythm of his heart, down over the trim waist, the fine wool of his trousers. House palmed the hard, unmistakable ridge of Wilson’s erection through the fabric.

Wilson bucked into the touch, a desperate, involuntary thrust. “Gregory…”

The use of his first name was a lightning strike. House’s control, already frayed, snapped. He ground his own aching hardness against Wilson’s backside, the rough denis of his jeans a harsh contrast to the fine suit. His hand on Wilson’s cock squeezed, a promise and a threat.

“Tell me what you want,” House growled into his ear, his voice rough. His fingers in Wilson’s hair gave another sharp, perfect pull. “Now.”

Wilson’s breath hitched, the sound rough, torn from somewhere he couldn’t quite suppress. His knuckles were white against the edge of the desk, every muscle in his body strung tight.

“House,” he said again, quieter this time, but not softer. It was a warning and a surrender tangled into one syllable.

House didn’t move away. His voice, when it came, was low and measured, as though he were still in control of the experiment. “You keep saying my name like that, and I might start thinking you mean it.”

Wilson turned his head just enough that their faces were close, too close. He could feel the warmth of House’s breath against his cheek. “You think this means something?”

“I think it means you didn’t tell me to stop.”

That shut them both up. For a long, suspended moment, there was only the hum of the fluorescent lights and the sharp rhythm of their breathing.

Then House eased back, his hand sliding free from Wilson’s hair with a slow, deliberate drag of fingers that felt almost like apology. Wilson straightened, adjusted his jacket, though the effort was clearly to hide the tremor still in his hands.

“You’re impossible,” Wilson said finally, his tone thin, but his lips betrayed him with the ghost of a smile.

“Mm.” House reached for his cane, scooping it up with practiced ease. “And you’re interesting again. That’s progress.”

Wilson let out a breath that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so exhausted. “You can’t just do that and then go back to talking about oncology.”

House was already limping toward the door, tossing the case file over his shoulder without looking back. “Sure I can. I multitask.”

Wilson stared after him, heart still pounding, his scalp tingling where House’s fingers had been. He wanted to call him back. He didn’t.

House paused at the door, glancing over his shoulder with that infuriating half grin. “By the way,” he said, “you were right about the biopsy. It’s not cancer.”

And then he was gone, leaving Wilson alone with the empty room, the scattered papers and the distinct feeling that something had shifted between them, quietly but irrevocably.