House MD Fanfiction

No Limit or All In

Hilson, smut, medium
By: missviolet

Wilson unbuttons his bow tie and peels it off, loosens the collar of his shirt. He’s hot and uncomfortable in his evening clothes and glad the night is over. He spots House sitting at the piano, tinkling away at “Hymn to Freedom.” House stops playing when he sees him, stands up, and together, they walk to the poker table, empty but for a few crumpled napkins and scattered glasses. House puts a stack of bills on the table, smiles at Wilson, and they are seated. It is one of those rare moments where words aren’t necessary and they act in perfect harmony. House lights his cigar, shuffles the cards, deals them each a hand.

“So Esther can rest peaceful now, huh?” says Wilson. He peeks at his cards and puts forty bucks in the kitty. 

”Yeah.” House takes a long puff on his cigar, looking more relaxed that Wilson had seen in a long time. Esther had been eating away at him, and the kid’s matching symptoms just about drove him over the edge. But now it’s like a giant weight is lifted off his shoulders. House is joking, laughing, trying to distract Wilson with facts about the barnacle’s penis, but Wilson wins all his money nonetheless. He’s on a hot streak, the money doesn’t matter to him, but nailing Burman in the poker tournament, taking House’s money, he feels a sense of unexpected glee at all his good fortune.

They play a few hands, and House gets fleeced. It’s Wilson’s turn to deal, but he won’t lay the cards down, because he knows House is broke. “I know you’re tapped, so don’t even pretend. Come on, I’ll drive you home,” he says.

“I’ve got the bike.”

“It’s raining. Come on,” and Wilson is surprised to realize he’s telling House what to do, and House is listening to him, collecting his tuxedo coat from the back of the chair, and they are walking down the hall towards Wilson’s office.

“Let me just get my umbrella,” he says, ducking into his office, and House follows, closing the door with a strangely deliberate motion. Wilson is searching his desk drawer for the umbrella, his back to House, whom he knows is staring, and normally he’d feel that hot self-conscious feeling prickling somewhere in the back of his neck but tonight, he wants House to look at him, wants him to see that he’s flush with the bucks and dressed to kill. He finds the umbrella propped in the back of his file drawer, extracts it carefully, and turns around. Predictably, House is staring.

“You wear it well,” he says.

“What, the umbrella?” asks Wilson, startled. House moves closer, takes the umbrella from his hand and drops it on the desk. “This,” he says, fingering Wilson’s tuxedo coat. “It looks good on you.”

“Thanks,” says Wilson, feeling momentarily awkward, and then suddenly, not. He does look good in his tux; he feels good, strong and lucky. And he sees that he has an in for himself, and why not take a gamble—if not tonight, then when? He moves towards House, who steps towards him, mirrors his movement so precisely; neither wants to take that bold first step, yet they both want to be on the other side of the fence.

“House—” he says, as if there’s something more, but there isn’t, it’s just a stall, to draw out the time and give House a moment to back away before he makes a fool of himself but he’s doing it, he’s placing a hand on House’s shoulder, and House is moving not back and away but towards him, he’s taking a step closer.