Chapter Text
House sighs, tapping at the side of his phone idly.
He's been filing through his self-made telephone book for the past five minutes, trying to find the contact information for someone he can't quite put a name to. Only a face.
There aren't many people who slot into these specific circumstances. Like, come on. You'd think if they were important enough to remember, he'd have their number on a past redial, or a way to contact them elsewhere through nefarious means. He wouldn't have to resort to his own, admittedly very unreliable, scratches of a ballpoint pen.
With furrowed brows and a long, slow pause, House reconsiders whether or not this is even worth it.
At face value, the gala he was slipped a last minute invite to doesn't offer him anything that justifies his current efforts. Just a few hours with a bunch of mediocre doctors who think they're all that. And flat champagne, if he's lucky. There's just something about it that's drawing him in, leaving its mark on his brain; his subconscious. He wants to go.
Unfortunately, it's not as simple as making his mind and turning up. He hadn't paid much attention to what was actually written on the letter at a first glance, having only noticed upon his third inspection. Printed in an absurdly fancy font at the bottom of his invite was a disclaimer. A plus one wasn't offered as a bonus or option. It was labelled compulsory.
Gala? Tomorrow night. Plus one? Not yet acquired. Ergo, House's ongoing search to reconnect with this very specific person he's met once.
It's not his first choice, nor second, but third. His first two choices were purely out of desperation. This one's all brains and vanity.
He still comes up short on a name, worrying at his lip as he keeps searching. All he knows for sure is that the guy is a bright, ambitious med student who owes him a huge favor. He's pretty, too, a face that'd be sure to ruin a few careers if given the chance. Perfect for this kind of thing.
Following his renewed vigor, House finds a small, folded up note under an old medical journal, a phone number scribbled across it in his own handwriting. That’s the one.
Climbing into bed, he opens his phone with a smirk, punching the digits in with daft fingers.
He then waits against his much less patient judgement, as it rings once, then twice, before stopping. The silence makes way for a sleepy, mumbled, “Hello?” that sounds like it precedes a yawn, and House's heart starts beating a little harder for some reason.
“Hi,” he answers. Normally this is where he'd confirm the person's identity and offer an introduction, but the dark pits of his memory still aren't quite cooperating enough for the first part. “Greg House. You may remember me.”
The guy snorts. “Hey. I was wondering if I'd ever hear from you again.” There’s a soft ruffling noise from the other end, one that doesn’t do much to reveal what the interruption has put a stop to.
“I'm assuming you've managed to keep yourself out of any more bar brawls,” House quips, fiddling with his pen as he pictures the mystery man. “Otherwise I'd be ringing up the county jail.”
Jail. Ja-il. James. That’s it. James Wilson. House can hear it in his voice, that soft, polite introduction that was practically forced out of him when they first met.
“Staying out of trouble, just like you told me to,” Wilson’s voice hums through the speaker. “Don't you think it's a little late to be calling just to check if I’ve reverted back to delinquency?”
House checks his bedside alarm clock. “No,” he answers with more enthusiasm than he realizes. “I called to take you up on your offer.” A pause, before he catches himself and clarifies, “A returned favor.”
“Long drive, if that's the kind of favor you're looking for,” Wilson quips with a tired little chuckle. “What do you need from me, doc?”
House smirks. “Just your attendance,” he says. His voice drops then, unable to resist dialing the suggestiveness up a notch. “You don't even have to see my face if you don't want to. It's not exactly a public event.”
“You inviting me to a glory hole now? Classy,” Wilson says, following suit. “What's the occasion?”
“I'll do you one better and tell you what it's not,” House counters, as sparingly as he can manage. “It's not fun or educational or entertaining. But it's interesting. And I need to bring someone with me.”
He bites his tongue, baffled. That was possibly the most vague and least persuasive way of asking someone to go to a gala with him. He wouldn't be surprised if Wilson just hung up right now.
“Not fun, educational, or entertaining. Glad you thought of me,” he jokes instead, and House can just hear the stupid grin on his face. “How far down the list of guest options was 'kid you bailed out of jail,' exactly?”
“Third,” House answers honestly, for reasons beyond even his comprehension. “Right after my ex and a hooker who happens to be studying medicine.”
“Good to know I made the list at all, I suppose,” Wilson laughs, apparently amused by how plainly House is willing to announce his chronic loneliness. “When and where do you want me, then? I'm in DC for the next week, so I might actually be able to make it if you're still down in Plainsboro.”
House's lips form a lazy smile, and he clicks his tongue on instinct. “Convenient.”
He relays the information as it's spread out on the invite, making an entirely separate note for Wilson to, “Wear something nice.” Hey, it can't be that self-indulgent. It's likely a bare minimum knowing the tedious expectations of prestigious event organizers.
“I'll rent a tux,” Wilson promises him. “See you soon, doc.”
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When the gala rolls around, House is a lot more nervous than he’s prepared to admit. There’s a long wait to get in, a crowd littered with an assortment of administrative staff, fellows and med students.
He’s tailing behind of his own accord, not letting himself join the line just yet as he scans the area for that familiar face and promised tuxedo. He's almost to the entrance when he spots Wilson, wandering around like a lost puppy as he adjusts his bow tie.
Their eyes meet almost instantly, Wilson's familiar grin (because god, who could forget those dimples?) creeping across his face as he carries himself over in a gradual, confident stride.
“You wearing lifts?” are the first words out of his mouth, not so much said as they are chuckled. “I don't remember you being this tall.”
“I don't remember you being this short,” House bites back, equally smug. He lays his gaze over Wilson, trying to get a proper eyeful before rationality takes over and forces him to slip back into his clinical trench coat. “Med school already knocking years off your life?”
“Just inches, actually,” Wilson says absently before his grin cracks again. “Not where they count, thank god.” House feels himself flush, clutching onto Wilson's quick wit in an attempt to stop searching for actual meaning in the words. His rich, sparkling brown eyes can't seem to decide whether to meet House's or to drag over his torso. “You look good.”
Following his mind's insufferable tangent, House fails to control his impulses, responding as soon as the words pop into his head. “Right back at you, kiddo.”
Wilson slips his bottom lip between his teeth subtly, glancing at the entrance to the venue. “We ever gonna go inside? Or do I just look too good in this light?” he prods, attempting to fluff up his hair without actually touching it. It makes sense. He probably spent far too long making it perfect to screw it up for a joke.
Despite the lighthearted tone, House's internal deliberation is genuine as his eyes fall to Wilson's lips for a moment. He's not quite sure he's willing to share the sight. “We can go.” He leans forward, chuckling softly. “With an ego like that, you'll fit right in.”
“I have to get into character if I'm gonna be your date,” he snorts, following House's lean with his own, craning his head slightly to meet his bright blue eyes. “Or is there not room for two egomaniacs here?”
House shakes his head. “There can only be one,” he chides, sighing to add flair. “Unfortunately for both of us, we won't be the only ones fighting for that title.” He decides to widen the gap between them, keen on actually making it inside rather than being overtaken by his urge to go beyond subtle flirting.
“Right,” Wilson murmurs, taking the hint and backing off slightly, and House immediately mourns the absence of his cologne. Cologne. That's new. When he bailed Wilson out of that cell, he had smelt faintly of booze and deodorant, nothing added over the top. This is a very welcome change of pace. “Am I going to be meeting anyone important in there?”
House scoffs, turning around to offer his lead. “Nobody who'll recognize you while they're still important.” He walks slowly, giving Wilson a chance to match his pace. “By the time you're seeing your own patients, most of these guys will be spending their weekends in the Poconos.”
“Of course,” Wilson chuckles, catching up in order to walk side-by-side with him. “So you're fine looking like a cradle robber? Or do you regularly hang out with college students?”
“Only the ones that interest me,” House clarifies, an odd flavor to the words. “And owe me favors, of course.” Better. That's the only reason Wilson's here, right? It's got nothing to do with interest. House slows to a stop as they approach the door, fumbling for his invitation.
“I envisioned the favor would be in a different setting, if I'm honest,” Wilson says innocently, dropping his voice and standing a little taller, almost as if making sure no one but House hears what he's murmuring. “A little darker, more private. But this is a lovely surprise.”
House fucking shivers, unsure there's any universe where he'd get away with blaming the cold. The thick envelope creases in his hand, rekindling his concentration as he swallows and nods. “I'm sure there are plenty more opportunities for mutual favors,” he mumbles. “Let's just get through this one.”
“Sounds good.” Wilson resumes his boy scout persona, plastering on that painfully, boyishly handsome smile that always seems to get him his way. He flashes it at the man at the door, looping his arm into House's like he's done it before.
With as much self-restraint as he can manage, House presents the flimsy invite to the doorman, matching his critical gaze. All it takes is a short once-over and a shrug towards the entrance, a green light for them both to enter, a prominent stamp now decorating the paper.
“They serve drinks here?” Wilson mutters the moment they step in, scanning the hall. When it takes a bit for House to respond, he feels Wilson squeezing his arm, shifting into his peripheral vision.
“Suppose so,” he answers, his voice distant as he takes it all in. Wilson's grip is firm enough to burn, and he's not quite sure if it's real or psychosomatic. It takes a moment to refocus, his full attention settling back on his muse. “Good thing you're legal, huh?”
“Very. I'm excited to get to flash my ID.” Wilson smiles. “Especially since it looks like I'm the youngest person here by at least a decade.” His eyes finally land on what looks like an open bar, and he moves his grip down House's forearm, holding him by the hand in order to drag him over. “But I haven't been drinking for very long. You might need to tell me what to get.”
House feels his eyes darken, eyelids growing heavy with promise. He follows Wilson's lead without resistance. “Medicine isn't the only thing I have decades of experience in. You have much to learn.”
“I'll follow your lead, then,” Wilson agrees easily, looking behind him with a playful grin that's way too devilish to be considered cute. “Pick your poison. Or our poison, I guess.”
The joint possession of the word our, Wilson's insistence on being taught, on learning — it's a lot for House to take in. “Let's start off light,” he says, beckoning the bartender over. “Two Cosmos for me and junior.”
Preemptively, Wilson already has his ID in his hand, handing it to the bartender with no small air of pride. Clearly, he hasn't been of age for long, or at least doesn't frequent bars. What handsome med student would, anyway? He's sure to be busy all the time, and there's no way he goes out just to get laid. All he has to do is flash those dimples and he probably gets whatever girl he wants.
By the time his ID is back in his wallet, he's leaning back on the bar, surveying the room again. “Am I going to meet anyone? Or do I not have to worry about staying sober and charming?”
“Up to you,” House tells him, watching as the bartender wanders off to make their drinks. “It's not your first year in the big leagues, you know. I'm not going to tell you what to worry about. You wanna meet people, go meet people.”
“You're the one who'll have to keep me upright.” Wilson shrugs. He makes eye contact with House again, gaze flicking between his eyes like he can't really decide which to look at. “So it's a little more up to you.”
With a smirk he can't hide, House ducks his head. I might not want to keep you upright, he thinks, which is probably the least welcome forethought right now. “Placing all your trust in me at a second glance?” he prods. “For all you know, I could be plotting a murder.” The bartender returns right as he says that, and they exchange a pointed glance.
“I'd rather go out drunk, if that's what it comes down to,” Wilson snorts, taking his drink with a bright, “thank you,” and meeting House's eyes over the rim as he takes his first sip.
“In that case, be my guest,” House drawls, holding his drink up to propose a micro toast. “To you, for making bail thanks to a man twenty years your senior. Pretty remarkable stuff.”
“To my Good Samaritan,” Wilson agrees, raising his glass in kind, the playful grin never once leaving his face. “Or the senior citizen preying on the young and vulnerable. That works too.”
After just one sip, the alcohol sliding down his throat nice and smooth, House feels infinitely lighter. Nothing's hit him yet, not even the reality of what he's opened the door to, but this barstool may just become his home for the night. No doors required.
Wilson is easy to talk to, easy to joke with. Unpredictable and fun, that charming demeanor revealing itself in every sentence. He's a sight for sore eyes with a quick tongue, and above all else, a massive fucking lightweight.
“Okay,” Wilson murmurs, swallowing and setting down his now empty glass. “You said we were starting light. What comes after light?” He already looks a little looser (as if he wasn't already), gazing at House through his thick lashes. “Unless you want to say all of your hellos and make sure your bosses see your face while we're still sober.”
“You're oddly obsessed with the idea of being seen sober,” House accuses him playfully, avoiding the question. His curiosity has been piqued. “That desperate to make a good first impression on people you'll never see again?”
“Terrible habit, I know,” Wilson shoots back. “I tend to try and meet people when I'm coherent.” Dropping his gaze to the counter, he drags a finger across the edge when he adds, “Not a great look if the college kid you brought throws up on your administration's shoes.”
House smirks, his eyes tracing the movement. “At this rate, I don't think you'll come anywhere close to that,” he says, the undertone dark. “A heavy scotch for the college kid,” he requests over the bar, reaching into his wallet. “I'll just take a Heineken.”
“You sure?” Wilson says, raising his brow. “If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were trying to get me drunk.” He turns in the barstool a little so his body, not just his face, is turned toward the man beside him, gaze lingering on the silver handle of House's cane where it rests against his thigh.
House raises his brow, his hand reaching for it and raising it pointedly. He resists the urge to slide it under Wilson's chin, instead settling for something much less threatening. “You're free to say no,” he offers as their next drinks are served. “If you're worried, of course.”
“When did I say I was worried?” Wilson smirks, gracefully accepting his scotch and sipping, eye contact never faltering. Wincing ever so slightly at the burn, he continues, “You said it yourself. None of these people will remember me. They'll just remember you brought me. And from what you've told me, your reputation really can't get any worse.”
“Oh yeah?” House teases, sliding his beer closer and tapping the glass absentmindedly. “Is that why you jumped at the opportunity to come see me? Are you drawn to rebellious role models?” Does it turn you on? his mind screams. God, please say it turns you on.
“Like no other,” Wilson grins. “I love me a bad boy.” He bounces his leg for a second, still looking up at House. A little performative, it seems, because all he has to do is straighten a little and they'd be more eye-to-eye, but he's intentionally keeping his head tilted just enough that he has to look through his lashes.
Something hot settles low in House's stomach. He's unsure if it's the way Wilson's looking at him or the beer he's yet to drink, but whatever it is might end with him causing a scene. “You know,” he mumbles, “my boss sets aside fifty grand each year just to settle lawsuits filed against me.”
“Wow, I've always hoped a man would say that to me,” Wilson cracks, lifting his scotch for another sip. “You trying to get me hot? Or are you looking to get charges filed tonight?”
“Why not both?” House retorts. He leans down, tilting his beer towards Wilson. “I'm a man of many talents.” Without breaking eye contact, he sips, watching closely for a reaction.
“I'm sure you are.” Wilson grins, not breaking, even as House challenges him. “Surgeon’s hands and all that.” The burn goes down easier this time, it looks like, because he doesn't even squint as he swallows. “There's something to be said for older men who know their anatomy.”
House almost bites into the glass, quick to decide he's in need of something a lot stronger. “And now that one has you pegged for the curious type, you're looking for some practical experience?” He looks around, suddenly aware of every word leaving his mouth. “You'll have to work a little harder for it.”
Just as Wilson opens his mouth to say something to devastate House's nervous system, they're interrupted by someone House is meant to recognise clearing her throat into the podium microphone. “Social hour's up, I'm afraid!” the woman announces. “Please find the tables assigned to your respective counties.”
“Looks like I'm following you,” Wilson shrugs, polishing off his scotch and sliding off of the stool. He doesn't follow right away, however. Instead, he offers his arm daintily in a mockingly expectant display. “Oh, c'mon. Be a gentleman.”
With a disgruntled huff, House accepts, linking their arms together again. He leads the way past a plethora of irrelevant faces, eventually finding a few that he recognizes talking near their assigned table. They all cast their own looks over at Wilson, the tension in the air thickening tenfold.
“I can't tell if people are staring because I'm half your age or a man,” Wilson whispers as they approach. “Some of them don't look very surprised. I take it you don't come to these things with any ladies on your arm.”
“You're half right,” House admits, no doubt loud enough for the others to hear him. He ignores their staring, keeping his attention planted on Wilson. “I normally don't even come to these things. They either don’t care that I'm here or they'd rather I wasn't.”
“Oh?” Wilson perks up, standing pointedly in front of an empty chair and not sitting. “Is it presumptuous if I choose to believe you just wanted an excuse to see me?” He waits, hands on hips, silently telling House to, again, be a gentleman and pull out his chair for him.
House catches the hint, sliding the stupid, pretentious chair out and watching as Wilson sinks into it. As he slips into his own, he answers, just above a whisper, “Very. I'd even argue it's selfish. Aren't you supposed to be the good boy here?”
“I never said that,” Wilson grins, voice similarly low as he watches House hook his cane on the back of his chair. “Just because you're worse doesn't mean I can't indulge a little.”
“You like that I'm worse,” House reminds him, unable to lower his voice any further. He avoids eye contact at all costs. “The juxtaposition of our every interaction is what's keeping you here.”
“I love it,” Wilson all but preens, making up for House's lack of eye contact by basically doubling his own. “I look like a boy scout next to you. No one would expect me to be the one to put that knot tying badge to use.”
House's flustered retort dies on his tongue as a few of his colleagues settle in the chairs around them, the unspoken timer ticking down following that ridiculous announcement. He keeps his mouth shut, finally meeting Wilson's eyes and admiring the look of him, comfortable and loose.
With the intensity Wilson holds his gaze with, he might as well have just winked at him. Unfortunately, their charged little staring contest is cut off when the actual point of the gala starts to play out on the stage. Awards for achievements, and high donations, and advancements in each field of medicine. Wilson claps after every one, the dork, keeping his eyes on the stage far too often than not. That won't do.
With a conniving little grin, House unhooks his cane from the back of his chair, trying his best not to rouse suspicion. At first, he simply holds it, his arm slung over the handle as it stands between his knees. Just relaxing.
During a particularly loud round of applause, he makes his first move, sliding the polished wood and silver under the tablecloth. He angles it just so, feeling around blindly until the curve nudges what he can only assume is Wilson's thigh.
He knows he's hit his target when Wilson whips his head around to face him, eyes wide in shock but corners of his mouth twitching. “Watch it,” he hisses under his breath, swatting at the cane in an unconvincing attempt at pushing it away.
This attracts a bit more attention than House is comfortable with. “I am watching it,” he answers coolly, keeping his eyes fixed to the stage as his cane goes on yet another blind search under the table.
The heads that have turned towards the little outburst don't seem to sit right with Wilson either, so instead of thrashing like a madman this time, he grits his teeth and lets the metal reach its destination.
Bingo. House pays close attention to every little tell; Wilson's arch away, his soft, unsteady breathing, the strain of his muscles. House's grip is firm and around halfway down, allowing him enough leverage to maintain control, but not so much that his movements are obvious. When he feels Wilson's body go rigid, hands bunching at the fabric below, he knows he's hit the jackpot.
He feels the cane meet some resistance as Wilson's hips give the tiniest little buck into the pressure, eyelids fully falling shut, and that's it. He's hooked. It takes a little too long for Wilson to exhale, his breath seemingly stolen by the pressure of the instrument, and it comes out shaky.
House doesn't stop there, god no. He twists his wrist in small, slow circles, building a steady rhythm as he watches after Wilson's every attempt to remain stoic. The venue is bustling, erupting into applause every few minutes, none the wiser as to what's happening over in their little corner. It sends a spark down House's spine.
It gets to the point that Wilson has to drop his elbows on the table and rest his face in his hands, half to hold himself up and half to cover his mouth. He's clearly trying to be good, but based on the shade of pink decorating his cheeks, House was wrong when he assumed the kid had been out getting laid whenever he wanted. Maybe being a good student really does mean spending weekends and Friday nights hunched over a textbook instead, because he looks like he's trying not to come in his pants from this.
“I need to— Excuse me,” he says abruptly, holding his tux closed over his groin as he shoves House's cane off of his lap and stands.
“Everything alright, kiddo?” House feigns innocence, slipping his hand around the curve and positioning it between his knees once more. He looks up then, forcing Wilson to meet his eyes. “Too much to drink?”
“Yep. Bathroom,” he answers curtly, unclear at first whether it's an excuse or an invitation. The tiny perk of his brow reveals its the latter.
House nods, unable to resist the urge to wink. He watches, amused, as Wilson stumbles past and looks around, frantically searching. With the speed at which he heads for the exit, you'd think it's his only lifeline.
He makes it about halfway before House follows, pace leisurely and slow, half from amusement and half from the cane. By the time he's outside, Wilson's hunched over against the wall, borderline panting. “You're evil,” he grits without looking up, House's looming shadow in the lamppost light having done the greeting for him.
“Evil as in evil?” House starts, inching closer. “Or evil as in almost making you come in front of a bunch of real grown ups?” He scoffs at the sight before him, unable to keep his eyes off of the straining tent between Wilson's legs. He's trying to cover it, his thighs rubbing against each other as he leans back, a feeble attempt.
House meets those gorgeous brown eyes then, glazed over and wet, confident now that Wilson's bail is the best waste of money to his name.
“Why not both?” Wilson chuckles, ineffectively covering his crotch. The look in his eyes screams of a want he can’t seem to name, and the fact that they’re so close that he has to crane his neck to look up at House makes it worse.
House tsks, letting his cane rest against the wall. “You would want that, wouldn't you?”
He doesn't give Wilson a chance to respond, crashing their lips together without another word. There's nothing gentle or patient about it, just a hot, exploratory collision, and Wilson moans against his mouth. His hands reach up to grab something, anything, and it makes House feel dizzy in a way that alcohol can't explain.
One of Wilson's hands is in his hair instantly, the other dragging down his neck, over his chest. It stays there, feeling the beat of a heart much older than his own, before dragging down and around House's back like he can't get close enough. The sounds he's making reveal exactly why he ran out so quickly, and House is fucking drinking them up. This would’ve gotten them more than kicked out; they’d have been arrested for public indecency, a shared crime with a punishment nobody could rescue them from.
Without giving it a single thought, House reaches for Wilson's waist and pulls him in, allowing him that close proximity he so desperately craves. He feels the rapid rise and fall of Wilson's chest against his, the scrunch of fingers in his hair, the hard, incessant swipe of his teeth and tongue. The combination leaves him weak at the knees, even despite his physical upper hand.
"You're... an asshole,” Wilson groans into his mouth, breaking and resuming the kiss on every syllable. “You couldn't have waited until we found a fucking... bathroom...?”
His words are chastising, but the way he's holding onto House is anything but. He's completely damned himself when he ruts himself on House's good thigh, a jerky, involuntary roll of his hips that drags a similarly accidental sound from his throat.
House can hardly believe the nerve. “Don't even,” he breathes, unable to respond all at once as Wilson continues to grind down on him. Their next kiss is quick, breathless, and he uses it as an opportunity to continue. “I bet you would've taken me right there if I'd promised to bail you out again.”
“I... oh, god,” Wilson basically hiccups, thighs spasming as he tries to fight the way his body is trying to fuck up against House's leaner, taller frame. “I wouldn't. I h-have a little more shame than you do, doctor.”
A moniker of utmost respect, all broken and shaky. House groans at the formality, the stark contrast between it and Wilson's current position making him tremble a little. Fine. If Wilson wants a doctor, he's gonna get a doctor. The diagnosis is already laid out right in front of him, and he knows just how to treat it.
“I'd believe you if you weren't currently rutting against me out in the open,” he teases, trying his best to keep his voice steadier than Wilson’s.
“Shut... up,” Wilson fucking whines, a desperate, high sound that goes straight to House's cock. “It's... jesusfuckingchrist, just touch me, please?”
He's clearly lost all the aforementioned shame, reduced to a whiny, pitiful mess in House's arms, and— god damn it, what kind of example would House be setting to deny him such a base need?
With a raw sound that's arguably just as desperate as Wilson's, House kisses him, swallowing the moan he gets in return. His hands wander over Wilson's hips before they find his belt, the buckle coming loose with ease. He feels Wilson stiffen, watches him worry at his lip until it's red sore.
“Thank you, thank you,” he whimpers against the stubble of House's neck, and House thinks he hears a couple more whispers of “doctor…” cried against his skin. Now that the offending strip of leather is out of the way, Wilson's hands relax enough to run through House's hair again, pressing messy, open-mouthed kisses to the skin of his neck. He can't crane up enough to capture his lips without help.
House can't quite process the feeling of pity on top of the overwhelming arousal wracking his body. He acts instead, fighting to tug Wilson's zipper down and lay his palm flat over the heat that's spread between his legs. He aches for direct contact, wrapping his hand around Wilson's clothed cock and biting his lip in anticipation.
Wilson's hand instinctively tightens in House's greying curls, the other sliding back down his neck to grip at the man's wrist. Not to stop him, god, not to stop him, but to check that this is real and happening.
It's then that a realization dawns on House, one that sends a shudder down his spine so violent that it actually makes him groan.
Wilson's hand, pale and soft and untouched by any work other than study and scalpel, is significantly smaller than House's. No random scars, no calluses from improper use of a mobility aid, less apparent tendons and veins. They're younger, weaker, inexperienced, and House can't fucking wait to train them. This is the first time he’s got Wilson like this, but it absolutely cannot be the last.
It only takes a few more whimpered pleas for him to crack. “Here?” he breathes, sliding his fingers under Wilson's waistband but avoiding contact. It's a vague reach for consent, just something that'll pry that pretty mouth open again, give House another chance to shut it with his own. “Is this what you need?”
“God, yes,” Wilson gasps, like opening his mouth is all it takes for those desperate, hungry noises to start spilling out again. His hips give another weak thrust up into nothing, searching blindly for a friction House isn't giving him. “Please, House... doctor…” His blunt nails are dragging against House's scalp now, down the back of his neck, scraping through his stubble like he has to keep checking that the man above him is real. It makes him wonder exactly how long Wilson's thought about this, because he can't seem to believe it's not a dream.
“Good boy,” House praises, finally giving in and snaking his hand around Wilson's cock, hot and slick with his arousal. It earns him another gorgeous sound, Wilson's whole body starting to shake with the effort of keeping himself standing. “You work so hard, I know you do. I've walked in your shoes.”
“Oh, fuck,” Wilson sobs. It's a real, honest-to-god cry, muffled by spit that’s thick with desire and lack of blood flow to the brain. “You can't... talk to me like that,” he whines, the statement less of a complaint and more of a warning. He's trying to tell House exactly what will happen if he keeps talking like that, something that’s too embarrassing for a handsome, young, well-endowed man to admit aloud.
Pressure builds and twists in House's gut, his stomach filling with butterflies. He can't remember the last time he felt so fucking powerful; he's got Wilson all messy for him, teetering on a knife's edge as he bucks wildly into a loose fist. Their eyes meet once more, breaths mingling, but it's different this time, more intense than House could've ever imagined. “Don't fight it,” he rasps, quickening his pace. “Take it. You've been so good, James.”
“I'm gonna…” The warning comes involuntarily, Wilson’s volume increasing as he starts to fuck House's hand instead of letting House stroke him. “Shit, House, I can't stop…” His breath is hot and wet where it brushes over House's jaw, and he buries his face into House's neck to muffle the obscene moans that are passing over his lips.
House nods, a broken groan tearing from him. “Don't stop,” he insists, giving Wilson room to set his own pace and take what he needs. House breathes the next sentence over the shell of his ear, a firm instruction, “Come on. Keep going until you come. I know you can.”
That's it. The nail in the coffin. Wilson's movements are past erratic, past frantic, fully into mindless territory now. The noises he's making are dangerously loud, trembling little whimpers and pleas and repetitions of House's name and title squeaked out in between bites at the skin of his shoulder. “Oh, oh fuck... I'm—!” The word dissolves into something between a scream and a groan, and as Wilson collapses beneath him, House thinks it might be the most gorgeous thing he's ever heard.
Unfortunately, he really should have been focusing on the task at hand, because an overworked and underfucked med student apparently makes for gigantic loads that are great for staining rented tuxedos. Wilson doesn't seem to care, though, trembling through his aftershocks and slowing his thrusts to a stop while he catches his breath.
House holds him through it, his mouth running dry at the feeling of Wilson's spent release over his hand. Wilson continues to tremble, his knees unable to keep him upright as he wobbles, caught between House and the solid wall.
Once his breathing has evened out, Wilson braces himself back against the bricks, his arms still wrapped around House's shoulder and waist to anchor him down. “So,” he pants, lips so close to House's neck that he’s basically still kissing it, “guess I owe you yet another favor. I still have a hotel room for tonight, if you wanted to call a cab.”
House hums. “Sure, if I can make it to the car and up a flight of stairs with a double limp,” he jokes, before immediately dropping his voice down lower. “I’ve got a couple theories to put to the test.”