House MD Fanfiction

Double Feature

Hilson, smut, 2900 words
By: magie_05

It was all Wilson’s fault.

House claims no responsibility for what has taken place this evening. He was minding his own business, keeping his hands to himself, and barely even snoring over tonight’s film noir. Even though he was bored. Even though it had been two days since the last time. Even though Wilson wore a green shirt today and his tie was loosened and his eyes were catching light from the TV, his features subconsciously darkening as the scenes changed…

Clearly, it was all Wilson’s fault that about thirty seconds after the credits rolled, they wound up exchanging heated words and frantic kisses in the hallway and collapsing half-clothed to the bed. His fault House couldn’t stop groaning, his own fault he banged his shin on the bed frame as he clamored onto House’s lap. His mouth that opened to House’s tongue, that leaked out sighs and curses and breathless little moans; Wilson’s hand that held them together, Wilson’s hips, his chest, his legs, his ass, all him…

Eight fantastic minutes later, they’re both lying on their backs, naked and panting at the ceiling. Urges have been satisfied, heart rates have slowed. Moans have faded away. Someone’s semen has been wiped off the headboard. Now there’s nothing to do but lie here with Wilson’s shoulder inches away from his and listen to the sudden silence.

The afterglow with Wilson kind of creeps him out.

The having-sex-with-Wilson part is nice. Alright, incredible. It’s just the talking-about-it part that gets to him. He can still count the number of times they’ve done it using his extremities; some latent awkwardness is to be expected. But the fact is, it’s barely nine o’clock, the party’s over, and neither of them is tired. So there’s a choice between either lying here silently, each mentally willing the other to fall asleep and break the awkwardness…or, Wilson could get up, get dressed, go back to his hotel—

“Jack Nicholson,” Wilson remarks.

House smirks, because that’s either Wilson’s really disturbing nickname for his penis or a continuation of a long-running game. “The Shining.”

“Shelley Duvall…damn…um…Popeye?”

“Robin Williams…Patch Adams.” In his peripheral vision, House sees Wilson lazily roll his head to the side and smirk. “Shut up. Means nothing.”

“Funny that’s the first of his movies to come to your mind, Dr. House. One might think it meant something to you - ”

“Shut up. Or I tell everyone at the hospital you cried over that deer thing.”

“I did not cry during The Yearling, House - it was…I had…”

House can’t help but grin as he starts babbling. This doesn’t count as pillow talk. Except for the talking. Or the…pillows. Still, the point is that Wilson’s not running his fingers through House’s hair or tracing fingertip hearts over his abdomen or making grand declarations of orgasm-induced love. What he is doing is enough. It’s something House can handle, pointless movie trivia, stickiness on his stomach, Wilson’s face resting lightly against House’s bicep as he speaks. “…and the deer was mostly symbolic, anyway, so even if I was crying, which I wasn’t, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

He feels a soundless laugh push its way out of his lungs, and he pulls his eyes off the light fixture, turns his head until his lips brush soft, brown hair. “You’re pathetic. And it’s still your turn.”

“Okay, the blonde from Patch Adams was in - Saw.”

“No, she wasn’t.”

“Yeah, yeah, she was the wife, remember?”