"So did you do your share of sleuthing at work, or are you ready for another mystery?"
"I'm off-duty. Isn't Nancy Drew available?"
"I called Blake this morning. The landlord for the apartment I thought I'd found? Turns out he gave the place to somebody else when I failed to return his urgent call a couple of nights ago."
"Mm." House's mouth was conveniently full. Who knew turkey tetrazzini was so tasty?
"You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"
"Not a thing," House lied, cheerfully, and reached over to stab the last bite of Wilson's dinner. Wilson's "hey!" was perfunctory, so House ignored it.
"I don't know why I put up with you," Wilson muttered.
Like that was really the issue. Wilson put up with him because his life was more fun with House in it. Besides, these days he didn't have a whole lot of other options.
The real question was the other way around: why House hadn't kicked Wilson out yet. House didn't want to examine those reasons too closely, but he had no illusions that it was because he'd developed a sense of compassion at this late stage in the game. He liked Wilson's cooking. And having somebody to drink with. And having the object of his sexual fantasies sleeping in the next room.
Okay, that was a good train of thought to derail. "Want another beer?" House didn't wait for an answer, just headed into the kitchen. He dropped his dish in the sink, snagged two bottles from the fridge with his left hand, and returned to the couch just in time to snatch the remote.
"I was going to watch that!"
House ignored him, scrolling through the TiVo's listings. "I'm saving you from yourself. We can do better than the X-Files."
"I like the X-Files."
"You should know I work with Chase. I'm inured to whining. Besides, you don't really like the X-Files, you just like looking at Mulder."
Wilson snorted and took a swig of his beer, apparently resigned to watching New Yankee Workshop again.
House glanced over at Wilson's earnest face and combed hair. Okay, maybe he was the one who liked looking at Mulder. Who bore a certain resemblance to Wilson, if he squinted a little.
If Wilson were Mulder, he'd be Scully. House kind of liked that. Sharp-minded and independent. The thought made him magnanimous, and he handed the remote control back. "Here," he said, grandly. "Knock yourself out."
"Thanks," Wilson said, skeptically, and started flipping channels back to FX.
"It's the least I can do. You're doing all the cooking." And it was good cooking, too, though House wasn't about to say that; if Wilson couldn't figure it out from the way he went back for seconds, he was dumber than he looked. "And it's not like I'm doing the dishes, or keeping the house clean, since you brought your housekeeper with you. So I figure I can let you pick the TV shows once in a while."
"Thoughtful of you," Wilson said, wryly, and hit "play."
House waited until he'd tipped his beer to his lips before adding, "of course, there's always blowjobs."
Wilson choked dramatically, and coughed for a little while. He wasn't actually in any danger, so House didn't move, just smirked at him.
"Damn it, House, I just drycleaned this shirt."
House waved a hand. "Give it to Maria, she'll do it for you."
"Her name is Lady."
"Whatever."
"You're insane," Wilson muttered, but he was smiling when he turned back to the TV.
House didn't pay much attention to the episode. He spent a little while picturing Mulder naked, but picturing Wilson naked was a lot more interesting, and now that Wilson was living on his couch it was easy to dream up plausible fantasy scenarios.
Besides, the look on Wilson's face when he mentioned blowjobs? Priceless. He'd have to remember what an easy way that was to throw Wilson off his stride.
He spent most of the episode idly imagining other, more inventive, ways of startling Wilson. Most of them involved the rough grip of his hand through the fine gabardine of Wilson's trousers. By the time the hour ended, he was ready to pop his last Vicodin of the night and whack off. "Bedtime," he said brightly, and limped to the bathroom.
When he came out, in boxers and T-shirt, Wilson was standing there. Instead of brushing past House to get in, though, he stopped and took a deep breath.
House waited.
"That blowjob thing," Wilson began. His face was reddening, high spots of color in his cheekbones; House filed that away for later fantasy use. "That wasn't any kind of actual offer, was it?"
It hadn't been, actually, but that was mostly because he didn't think Wilson was enough of an idiot to take him up on it. House shrugged, arch. "You'd have to ask nicely and see."
There, that'll shut him up, he thought, turning away. Because no way was Wilson brave enough to take that bait, even if he wanted to, which House pretty sincerely doubted he did.
"Please." Wilson's voice cracked; it was needy in a way he'd never heard before.
House turned back and stared at him. There was embarrassment in his face, but there was desire, too. In his features, and in the nascent erection House could see through the thin cotton of his boxer briefs.
When was the last time anybody had looked at him like that? House tried to tamp down his own arousal, or at least disguise it with sarcasm. "You'd do pretty much anything to get yourself off that livingroom couch, wouldn't you?" House jerked his head toward the bedroom. "You'd better get in there before you come to your senses."
Wilson moved so fast House almost laughed.
It didn't take long to get him going. A couple of dirty kisses and a little groping, and Wilson was panting in his ear. House liked his eagerness, more than he wanted to admit.
"You know, I'm not sure how I feel about being your rebound fuck." House skimmed a hand along Wilson's length and squeezed, which drew a gratifying gasp. "Then again, you do make astonishing pancakes, and I guess you deserve something in return."
Wilson thrust up, his posture betraying increasing desperation. "I'll...make them...again," he managed, "if you'll justÂ’—"
"Just what?" House asked, enjoying his newfound ability to make Wilson squirm in this exciting way. "Just this?"
He bent and swallowed Wilson whole.
Wilson's hands scrabbled at the sheet. House would have smiled, if he could have stretched his mouth in that direction. Yeahhh.
When House rolled over onto his back, he reached down to stroke himself. Sucking Wilson off had turned him on; he needed something beyond the friction of his sheets. Wilson batted his hand away, replacing it with his own.
"Hey," House said. "I thought I was repaying you for the cooking. Now I'm going to wind up owing you one again."
Wilson grinned. "Rough life." He propped himself up on his left side, leaving his right hand free to do what it was doing.
He really was exceedingly talented with his fingers. Not that House had any intention of telling him that. "Nnngh," he said instead, as Wilson rolled in and bit at the side of his neck.
Rhythmic press of hand, hot mouth teasing the place where neck met shoulder: House's climax didn't take long. It was even more sublime than the pancakes, not that he was going to say that, either.
"You can have half the bed," he said. "Assuming you don't steal covers."
"I'll do my best."
"Or kick. Kick me and I'll kill you." His voice was too contented to give the words any bite. Apparently orgasm temporarily robbed him of his ability to intimidate.
Not that he was apparently able to intimidate Wilson anyway. A few nights at his house and the guy crawled right into his bed.
"Noted," Wilson said, and rolled over. It was the cautious roll of a man who knows how to share a bed, House thought: he didn't tug the whole comforter with him.
This just might work. Now that Wilson had a clue.
The End