House MD Oneshots + Imagines

Here (Gregory House x James Wilson) (NSFW)

James Wilson is drunk.

It's half past twelve in the morning, and the oncologist can barely remember how he got here. He's splayed out on the floor of Greg House's apartment, his bare back uncomfortably scratching up against the scraggly red rug. His slacks feel too tight where the waistband hugs his hips and the material feels awkward when it brushes against his legs. He's too hot and too cold at the same time, shivers tearing through him as his hair sticks to the clammy skin of his forehead because of the sweat that's gathered there.

He turns, hazy chocolate brown eyes fuzzy until they land on House. The diagnostician is even more drunk than Wilson is, having been fading in and out of consciousness for the past hour. Wilson knows that he should get up and help House to bed, but he thinks that if he tries to stand, he'll fall.

So, he decides it's better to stay on the floor. It's nice being next to House like this, right here, anyway. Here, in the way their shoulders brush against one another; here, in the way their breaths and their laughs intermingle; here, in the way their fingers brush together when Wilson reaches over to confiscate the half-empty wine bottle from House's grasp so he can sit up and set it on the coffee table. Wilson thinks he could spend forever here .

"Why'd you do that?" House whines, far too drunk for his own good, and Wilson can't help but laugh at the pathetic display.

"Because you've had more than enough to drink," He teases and watches the wine bottle, which teeters with the lack of care he uses when he places it down. Thankfully, it doesn't fall, eventually coming to a stop.

"Like you haven't?" House retorts and watches as Wilson lays back down on the ground.

"Oh, I definitely have," Wilson's eyes flutter shut. He lies there, trying to prevent the nausea that's creeping up his stomach and into his throat. He wonders how neither of them are passed out or puking up their guts. He wonders what House is thinking. He wonders what House's lips taste like. He wonders if they're running out of time. "I just know that it's time to stop. You, my friend, seem to struggle with that."

"Give it back," House's slurring is accompanied by him rolling on top of Wilson and collapsing on top of his chest. The weight makes the younger man grunt as he looks around for House's cane, only to see that it's not even in the room. Wilson sits up on his elbows and flushes at the compromising position they're in; him on his back on the floor, House lying on top of him, curled up on his bare chest. He doesn't remember the point at which his shirt came off, but he's sure to commit to memory the way arousal simmers under each and every inch of skin that House runs his fingertips over. "Wilson..."

House weakly reaches for the wine bottle, only to miss and quickly give up. He plops down onto Wilson's body, face buried in the oncologist's neck. It's then that Wilson realizes just how intimate this is. However, he figures this'll be just like any other time that they teeter the line between their dangerously codependent friendship and something more; morning will come, and they'll forget, and nothing will ever come of it. That's what they're used to.

But then, House is sitting up with his arms on Wilson's chest so he can place his hands on either side of the brunette's face.

"H-House...?" Wilson murmurs and raises a hand to place it on top of one of House's. Suddenly, everything feels far too real and his nerves are being lit on fire with House's touch. "What are you doing?"

House doesn't answer- at least not verbally. One moment, he's staring into Wilson's widened brown eyes, and the next moment, he's leaning in to press his lips into Wilson's lips. The oncologist almost gasps, but he stops himself and decides that if this is going to happen, he might as well enjoy it.