House MD Fanfiction

It's just sex

Hilson, smut, 2527 words
By: gracefultree

It’s just sex.

That’s what House tells himself every time it happens.

It’s just sex.

Just sex after a monster truck rally, drunk on beer, testosterone and diesel fumes.

Just sex when they end up in bed together after a bad week, or bad day.

Just sex when Wilson turns up at his apartment with a suitcase and red-rimmed eyes. Julie has left him, and Wilson has nowhere else to go. Not that he would go anywhere else, they both know.

Only that night, they don’t have sex. They climb into Houses’s bed, kiss hungrily for a few minutes, then fall asleep with Wilson’s shaky breaths and almost-tears between them and House’s arms around Wilson.

House wakes up alone to the frustratingly familiar sound of Wilson’s hair dryer. He wonders, not for the first time, whether Wilson left it under his sink or hidden behind books or somewhere else in the apartment, but he’s looked, so he knows that Wilson must have one in his car, because he always has one when he stays over.

When did it go from fucking to staying over? House knows the answer, of course. He always knows the answer. It was after Stacy left him, when he was in the darkest place of his life, when all he could do was cling to Wilson and fuck him until his leg screamed in so much pain that he could justify the amount of Vicoden he shook out onto his palm.

He pretends to be asleep when Wilson comes by the bed to say he’s going to work, and Wilson lets him pretend because he’s too tired and emotionally wrung out to protest.

House avoids him after that, as much as is possible for two men living and working together. Wilson sleeps on the couch. They don’t have sex. He complains about the pranks, he gets angry, he becomes resigned. He files halfway through House’s cane, and the resultant fight lands them at home, in Houses’s bed, fucking as if their lives depend on it.

Knowing them, House muses, it probably does.

House is always on top. Has always been on top, ever since that first night when House bailed him out of jail because he thought Wilson was ‘not boring.’ It had nothing to do with Wilson’s eyes, House tells himself. And certainly nothing to do with the way Wilson looked at him with those eyes, or the suddenly indrawn breath when they actually saw each other for the first time.

House is always on top. No negotiation, no protest, no question. Except tonight he’s on the bottom, the pain in his leg far too much to bear his weight as he fucks Wilson. So Wilson climbs on top of him and sinks down onto his cock, and House has nowhere to look except Wilson’s face. It’s become a far too familiar position of late, House thinks, even as he races towards climax.

As orgasm comes upon Wilson, House studies his face, as much as is possible when he’s moments away from his own completion. It’s the first time he’s ever looked so closely. Wilson’s mouth is wide open, his eyes squeezed shut, and a tear trickles down his cheek.

A purely biological response, House tells himself. Besides, it’s just sex.

Another tear falls, and he sees the shape of his own name on Wilson’s lips and hears the whispered breath. House has always suspected that Wilson wants more, but now he knows.

He knows, and he’s terrified. Terrified of trying and failing. Terrified of losing the dream, the hope that they could make it work. Terrified that Wilson would grow tired of taking care of him, the way Stacy did.

Despite his leg, House brings a warm, wet washcloth when he comes back from the bathroom and silently hands it over. Wilson accepts it with a frown, because House has never, in all the years they’ve been doing this, done such a thing, but cleans himself off, drops the towel to the floor, and moves over to give House room on his side of the bed.