House MD Fanfiction

In the Closet... er... Shower...

Hilson, smut, 2,237 words
By: gracefultree

At five in the morning, Wilson figured that he was guaranteed a shower to himself. He’d chosen the locker room as distant from the ER as possible, and he’d gone so far as to select one of the private rooms designed for the handicapped because he just wanted a few minutes to himself.

He hadn’t had an orgasm in almost a week.

Between his wife’s coldness (and refusing to allow him into bed or to have sex with her,) sleeping in his office, and House’s interference, there hadn’t been a chance, really. He didn’t think House was trying to thwart him, per se, but when Wilson slept in his office, House had the unerring ability to know about it and follow him to the showers to talk each morning while Wilson washed himself. Why House would be in so early even when he had a patient baffled him, but House was House: a law unto himself, always changing the rules by which he lived his life. (And for some reason he didn’t trust his fellows as much as usual to manage the overnight shifts. It made Wilson wonder if House was avoiding home the way he was, if for a different reason.)

This morning, he knew House was at home. His patient was on the way to recovery, and he’d said goodbye to his friend at eight last night. He sighed, lowering his head and letting the hot water sluice down his back. He rested his right forearm against the tile and gathered soap in his left hand.

Another sigh, more of a groan. He was achingly hard, almost ready to burst with pent-up need. He quickened his motions. Close, he was close… he closed his eyes, ready for the final push.

The door to the room banged open.

“Occupied!” he shouted, frustrated beyond belief. He stopped moving, though he didn’t let go of himself. If he waited, maybe the other person would leave and he could finish. Was he being too hopeful?

“I’m covered in vomit,” House answered. “Shove over.” He pulled back the curtain, stepping under the spray.

House was, indeed, covered in vomit. Bloody vomit. All over his shirt, jeans and shoes. Damn. House had loved that pair.

Wilson released himself, giving a last, regretfully ineffective tug. House’s eyes followed the movement. Of course. Wilson knew he’d never be allowed dignity as long as he had House as a friend. He braced himself for whatever humiliation was about to come out of House’s mouth.

“Well, well, well, Little Jimmy’s enjoying himself this morning,” House commented.

“No thanks to you,” Wilson snapped, crossing his arms over his chest and forcing himself to ignore the erection that pointedly fluttered in House’s direction when he shifted his weight. If he pretended it wasn’t there, it would go away faster, he reasoned. And if he acted like nothing was wrong, maybe House wouldn’t make such a big deal out of it. Not that he really expected that, of course. He knew his friend, after all.

“Did you have to come here? There are lots of other showers in the hospital.”

“Ah, but none of them have you in them.”

“Wait, you searched me out?” Wilson demanded. “You came looking for me? What kind of a bastard are you, anyway?”

“Disappointed I invaded your ‘alone time?’” House asked with a slightly less powerful sneer than he’d usually use. “Relax. I’ll finish you off after you’ve helped me out of this shit,” House replied without a second thought. “I think it’s all ruined, anyway.”

Wilson took a step back, feeling the cold press of the wall’s tiles against his skin. House, offering him a hand-job? What? House shrugged as if it hadn’t mattered at all that he’d offered and pulled off his t-shirt, tossing it in the far corner. He stepped farther into the spray and let the water plaster his hair to his head and begin to wash vomit chunks from his jeans. He grabbed a handful of soap and lathered up his chest. Wilson blinked, mesmerized by the sight.