Title: Bad Leg Day
Chapter: Pill Two
Author: hang_monet 
Pairing: House/Wilson
Word count: 1200
Rating:  NC-17
Warnings: Language, Timmy / sad, graphic-ish discriptions of pain / sexual content
Spoilers: Season 4
Summary: Ever wondered what goes through House’s head as he waits for the vicodin to kick in?
Chapter Summary:  House makes it into work, although his activities could only be described as ‘work’ on a porn shoot.
Chapter One

The guitar. The ultimate antidote to pain, losing oneself for hours trapped in melodies and chord progressions. The one thing he could find happiness in after the infarction was that it hadn’t occurred in either of his arms. He found himself gazing longingly at his guitars now, wondering if he had time before the cab came to –

A honking horn outside told him the thought wasn’t even worth finishing.

He had the cabbie drop him ‘round the back by the morgue, already formulating the perfect lie in his head as to how he’d arrived without his bike today, and why.

He loved his bike. Sometimes, alright, almost all the time, the only reason he kept going was to feel breakneck speed akin to what every bastard intern feels running down the halls to their first code. On these rare days where the pain scale settled upon a firm open-mouthed ten when he woke and kept it up all day, just to see how long he could take it, the bike wasn’t an option. It was why he kept the cars taxed.

Except for the days when he couldn’t walk that far to get to the damn car.

Not long now, he told himself, slipping between chilling bodies and stepping into the staff elevator, composing himself to look imposing as the doors opened on his floor, just in case anyone was watching.

They weren’t, so his leg got the full benefit of the cane as he heavily limped down the corridor and into his office, wondering whose idiot idea it was to make everything glass. Good for intimidation, bad for secret reeling in pain.

The ducklings weren’t in their cage and Wilson was nowhere to be seen, so he didn’t bother holding back the groan which threatened to rise to his lips every day when he sat down, leaning back and propping his leg up on the desk.

He didn’t have a case, so he really should be hiding so Cuddy couldn’t find him and force clinic duty upon him. Usually he was simply exercising his right to be lazy, but he couldn’t deal with all the standing and sitting and standing again involved with working in the clinic today.

He rolled his neck and caught a glimpse of Wilson in his office, currently patient-less and scratching his pen through the ever-constant paperwork decorating his desk. Ah, Wilson. One day, all this will be yours.

He lifted his leg at an angle and gently spun the chair, now resting his foot atop the television as his right hand automatically went to his thigh to help prop the leg up. Whatever it was Wilson was writing, he was stuck, the thumb of his writing hand caught gently between his front teeth as he thought.

That was the moment House fell back to his favourite alternative to pain: fantasy.

As Wilson used his free hand to loosen his ever-present tie, House thought about how he knew he could never kiss him. It had nothing to do with the awkwardness such an action would cause, and all to do with how terrible House was at relationships. Letting people close had never appealed to him, even for a quick one while he was away. He couldn’t ever fuck up what he had with Wilson like that. That’s what hookers were for.

The pen was suddenly dropped to the desk with a short clatter as one hand slipped gently inside a gap presented between buttons on Wilson’s shirt. Between the barrier of cotton House could see the movement of the stroking fingers, reaching out eagerly for the nearest nipple to pluck and roll.

House could never forget the taste of nipples, the distinct different tang between people and genders, this glorious taste you could live forever without, yet the moment you remembered it was needed more than anything.

He felt himself begin to grow hard as the tongue which was so skilful at battering him down flicked out between the fingers now in Wilson’s mouth, involuntary suction causing him to groan beneath his breath.

Fuck it. He needed to stop thinking of Wilson behind his desk. He could never see things as soon as they started to get interesting.

Jiminy Cricket himself would be proud of the enforced modesty. Unsurprisingly, House wasn’t so easily thrilled.

He closed his eyes to the real-life Wilson, who was annoyingly buried back in the writing flow, and easily transferred the scene somewhere more private – very careful to make sure it was a place where nothing could obstruct his view.

That’s much better.

Wilson sits unashamedly on House’s couch, fully displayed in his indecency and secure in the knowledge that House is asleep. His hand subjects his thighs to a sudden violent shove in their direction in his need for stimulation; his entire body begins to vibrate as he wanks inside his boxers, lost in frenzy until a low moan is joined by a second, agonizing one from a nearby room.

Of course, that would happen if anything happened, too. His leg would go, and without Wilson’s ever-fancied notion of romance the relationship would be over before House got the only thing he liked to tell himself he really wanted.

 Typical. Even in fantasy his thoughts wouldn’t leave him alone.  There was no point now anyway, the small promise of an erection would need to be hidden if it became anymore obvious, and then he was back to the glass-walls problem. If there ever was a fucking metaphor.

He wanted a pill, Christ he wanted a pill. He sought his pocket for the comforting lump which signified his bottle was where it should be. There was no one around, though, which was a God-send, granted, but ruined his ‘look at me I’m an addict’ pose. He toyed with waiting for someone to show up, seeing as Cuddy should be along soon to yell at him as it was almost lunch time, then decided that he couldn’t take the wait today.

Unscrew, tip, flip, swallow...yum. Delicious heaven in a capsule. He was hardly a romantic, but even he could think poetically about that one thing he needed to survive.

Glancing over to real Wilson as the bottle went back into his pocket, House could find no traces of his ginger-in-certain-lights friend. Must be time for today’s fifth round of flirt-with-a-nurse.

Taking his ‘til now abandoned cane and using it to push open the balcony door, he entertained himself for about five minutes using it as punt to push his office chair outside and around a bit, hiding in a corner only visible from Wilson’s office. No clinic duty for him today, no way.

Of course, Wilson will want a better excuse than just hiding, due to his absence so far. An evil plan coming to mind, House prepared Wilson’s surprise by unzipping his fly and spreading it until it was obviously open. To complete the piece he pushed his boxers down just far enough for a glimpse of pubic hair.

Come back from looking for me all concerned, Wilson baby, I’ll give you the fright of your life.

One of these days he might stop being so cruel. But for now? Well, everyone needs a hobby. So what if his hobby’s obsession?


A/N: Pill Three

Tags: bad leg day, hilson