Archive of Our Own

The night air burns cold against House’s exposed hands. The recent rain brought with it an autumnal chill that seeps deep into bones and settles right where it can do the most damage. It’s exactly what House needs right now, coming off one of the most difficult days in recent weeks. He welcomes the burning sensation that stiffens his digits, makes every move of his hands on the handlebars of his bike feel like delicious torture. His bad leg, pressed tightly against the frame, twinges in protest at the long ride, but just with the wind biting at his skin, it’s a pleasant sensation that dulls his ever-spinning thoughts.

A sharp bend in the road forces him to slow down, and he leans into the turn with practiced ease. The bike’s engine howls at the change in speed, howls again when he accelerates. The narrow country road in front of him is straight, empty, illuminated only by his headlights that cast eerie shadows into the half-naked trees on either side of him. The airstream is a dull hum in his ears, a constant noise to drown out the thoughts in his head.

His adrenaline spikes as he speeds up, chasing that high he so desperately craves. It’s not just that this was a difficult day in a difficult week. No, today was unbearable. He’s used to people questioning his methods, fighting him on every decision, shooting him down only to come crawling back and beg for forgiveness. It’s the breach of trust that’s new to him, that leaves a stale taste in his mouth, that puts dangerous thoughts in his head.

Right before the next bend, House speeds up his bike, swerves onto the oncoming lane, winding his way past a thicket so fast a car going in the other direction wouldn’t have enough time to brake before hitting him. He feels a little pang of regret when the road remains deserted. There is no one else out here with him. At least not in front of him; there’s a flash in his mirror, however, a glimmer of headlights in the distance behind him, insisting on grabbing his attention. He huffs. As if he couldn’t outrun a car, should it come to that. In fact, he welcomes the challenge.

He speeds up more. If the betrayal had come from Foreman or even Cameron, he would have been able to handle it, but Wilson? Wilson is supposed to be his friend, he’s supposed to have his back. How dare he go to Cuddy with this? Especially after House opened up to him in one of his rare, vulnerable moments. Wilson is supposed to be his conscience, keep him on the right path, help him when he’s hurting and in pain. He isn’t supposed to rat him out when it’s convenient to him. If he has a problem with how House manages his pain, he should talk to him about it, not run off crying to mommy and get her involved.

Well, that’s a lesson learned. He can’t trust anyone, not even his so-called friend.

The bike howls again as House twists the throttle. He should stop replaying it, that moment when Cuddy burst into his office, face red with fury. He should stop replaying how Wilson stood behind the glass wall out in the corridor, his expression full of guilt as he watched Cuddy threaten House with suspension, with the termination of his contract even. In that moment, House didn’t care about Cuddy—he’s used to her frequent outbursts, knows exactly what to say to calm her down. But what do you say to the one person you thought you could trust with this, the one person who’s supposed to be on your side, who didn’t even have the balls to face you?

The betrayal stings worse than the night air, and House grunts. There’s a small farm ahead to his right, the house dark except for a porch light. The black truck parked out front briefly looks silver in House’s headlights. He twists in his seat as he passes, not really seeing the house or the porch or the car. If he can’t punish Wilson for his betrayal, he can at least make sure—

There! The car that is driving behind him comes into view again, closer this time. House raises his eyebrows in surprise, tries to recall a map of the region. Where could it be going at this time of the night, and so fast too? The driver could be lost, that’s always a plausible explanation, especially on winding country roads such as this one. It’s dark, every tree looks just like any other, and there are hardly any signs to tell you where you are going. If you aren’t familiar with these backcountry roads, you could be out here all night, driving past the same farm every fifteen minutes without realizing it.

That explanation certainly is the most plausible one. Because it isn’t possible that someone is following him, right? Then why does his brain immediately go there? Angry patient, angry colleague, angry stalker—been there, done that. It could very well happen again. Although he can’t quite understand how someone has been following him for almost two hours without him noticing until now.

There is one way to test his stalker theory. Sonn, he’ll arrive at a junction. The road he’s on continues straight, much the same as it has for the past 50 miles. If he were to turn left, he’d be going in one big circle back toward Princeton. If he turns right, he’ll be on a dirt road that leads to an abandoned farm. No one has any reason to go there.

So when House reaches that junction, he slows down, switches off the headlights, and looks back over his shoulder. The lights of the car behind him appear and disappear sporadically as it follows the winding road. Slowly, House steers his bike onto the dirt road and rolls along it until he comes to a stop right behind a small hill. He can still make out the junction from his hiding spot, but anyone driving by in a car won’t be able to spot him, certainly not at night. Certainly not on an abandoned dirt road that the driver doesn’t have any reason to turn on to. There is nothing here, just derelict fences, untended bushes and shrubs, a tree a little further up the road that has fallen and is now barring the way. No, if the car follows him here, it means this is personal.

Without the airstream dulling his senses, House can hear the other car approaching, the sounds of the engine growing steadily louder. It’s the only noise he can hear; that, and a faint murmur in his ears. The cause of that is his racing heart that is urging him to stop playing games and leave. House licks his lips. Patient, colleague, stalker—he doesn’t want to deal with any of these people tonight. But there is something about the thought that someone followed him all the way from Princeton that makes the base of his spine tingle pleasantly. His palms are sweaty.

He takes off his helmet, the night air hitting his hot cheeks like a slap. His hair sticks to his forehead, and he runs his fingers through it. The air around him smells like oncoming winter, like dead leaves and grass, and faintly like gasoline. Now that his senses aren’t dulled by a heavy helmet anymore, he can hear the engine of the approaching car clearly. It’s close, and sure enough, the headlights appear. They’re bright, and much closer than House thought they would be when he chose his hiding spot. There’s a bitter taste in his mouth.

The car stops at the junction, engine idling. House’s breathing is shallow as he watches, trying to convince himself that the driver is lost. They’re just deciding which way to go, they’re definitely not trying to find him. House shifts on his bike, the seat groaning under his weight. He starts to feel the strain on his bad leg, and he regrets that he didn’t dismount when he had the time. A spark of irritation ignites deep in the pit of his stomach.

Finally, the car rolls forward and House relaxes his shoulders. Maybe they are just lost after all; and even if they’re looking for him, they didn’t spot him. He watches as the car passes the entrance to the dirt road and continues on into the night. He has brought up his helmet halfway, ready to continue on his nightly drive, when he hears the tires of the car squeak. It’s turning around fast, and suddenly the headlights are directed at the dirt road. The gravel scrunches as the driver steps on the gas pedal. Hard.

The adrenaline is rushing through House’s veins now, and he tries to put on the helmet again, but his fingers are stiff with cold and he fumbles, drops it. He curses loudly, well aware that getting off his bike to retrieve the helmet will cost him valuable seconds. The headlights, now directed at him, are so bright he has to squint, raise his hand to shield his eyes. He can’t make out any details, doesn’t know how many people he’s about to face, but even if this situation should turn out to be hopeless, he can still bite.

“Hey, what’s your problem?” he shouts into the night.

As a response, the engine stops, but the headlights remain on, burning themselves into House’s retinas. Good. Now he might have gained some time to escape, face the problem head-on by squeezing past the car. If he’s fast. And if the driver is bad and can’t turn around quickly on this narrow dirt road.

House turns the key, presses down hard on the start button. The engine comes to life with a loud rumbling sound that cuts through the night like a scream. The car door on the driver’s side flies open and a figure climbs out, one hand raised. House glances at the passenger side, making sure no one else has the idea to stop him, and puts his bike into first gear.

“Stop!”

The voice he hears over the rumbling of the engine is so familiar he would recognize it anywhere. For a second, he considers pretending he hasn’t heard anything, but then his stomach begins to churn with that anger that makes him want to hurt everyone around him. And what better way to set it loose on the one person that caused it, the one person who didn’t only betray him but also had the nerve to follow him.

House kills the engine.

“Are you following me now?” he shouts. His ears ring from the volume of his own voice. “That’s a new low, even for you.”

Wilson shuts the door of his car with a loud bang that echoes across the fields like a gunshot. “Considering what you’ve been pulling recently, you’re in no position to accuse me of anything.” The anger behind his words loses some of its power when a gust of wind howls across the empty fields around them, but his shoulders are shaking with repressed fury.

House climbs off his bike, trying not to put any weight on his bad leg. The cold air and the way he kept it in the same stiff position for too long make it cramp up painfully. But there is no way he’s going to show any sign of weakness in front of Wilson, so he puts on a neutral face and stands up straight.

“I thought friends were supposed to trust each other.”

A dry laugh comes from Wilson at hearing that statement, a laugh that sounds suspiciously like … no, it can’t be. House only wants it to be a sob because it would mean Wilson is much closer to a breaking point than he’s letting on. No, he’s still standing straight, shoulders drawn back, head held high. It takes more than that to break him.

“And I don’t think you have any right to talk about trust,” Wilson says, his voice steady.

“So what’s the plan here?” House asks, taking a few steps toward Wilson as if slowly invading his personal space will be enough to put him in his place. “You’re gonna quit your job so you can follow me around for the rest of your life?”

Wilson squares his shoulders. That’s a no on the intimidation then. “You would like that, wouldn’t you? No, I just want to have a mature, grown-up conversation with you about this for once.”

“Following a man like a fucking stalker, oh yeah, that’s very grown-up,” House snaps.

House has almost passed the front of Wilson’s car to join him in his sanctuary of darkness. He can’t get make out any details, since Wilson’s face is still half-hidden in shadow, but he does notice a distinct twitch in Wilson’s jaw. He can’t help the spread of a self-assured smile at that sight. It’s good to know he’s prodding the right part of Wilson’s conscience—time to put more pressure on it then.

Wilson crosses his hands in front of his chest and takes one step toward House. “If you’d stop storming out in the middle of a conversation like a teenager, then I’d be treating you like an adult. Until then …”

That wipes the smile right off House’s face. His hand flies up to point an accusing finger at Wilson. “You were the one who said he was done talking about this!”

To House’s disappointment, Wilson doesn’t retreat. He takes another step toward House and widens his stance. “I was done talking about giving you a prescription for Vicodin, not about how I think you need help, since apparently you have no qualms about forging my signature to get what you want.”

“I know I need help. That’s why I came to you weeks ago, because you’re a friend.”

There it is! Wilson pinches the bridge of his nose; it elicits a small grin of triumph from House. “Well,” Wilson sighs, “I refuse to let you use me any longer.”

House huffs. “When did you grow a backbone?”

That earns him a glare from Wilson, and his stomach knots pleasantly at the sight.

“I should’ve done this years ago,” Wilson says. His voice is still too even and controlled for House’s taste. But there is a fire in Wilson’s eyes that not even the rural darkness can dull. House feels the itch to stoke that fire until it turns into a burning blaze, feeding on both of them. “I’m done watching you throw your life away.”

“Babe, are you breaking up with me?” House baits him.

“Can you be serious just once in your life?”

“I am being serious when I tell you that I’m either getting my Vicodin from you or I’m getting it from someone else. I think you’d prefer the first option.”

When did they close the distance between each other so they’re almost touching? House is so close now that he can finally make out every wrinkle in Wilson’s tired face. He looks exhausted, almost gutted, like he’s running on fumes. His eyes have sunken into his skull, his skin is pale, there’s a sheen of sweat just below his hairline. It can’t just be what House is doing to him, but he can’t deny he’s playing a part in this. And considering that Wilson is using up the last of his energy to keep the fire in his eyes burning just a little longer, it won’t take long for him until he breaks.

It won’t take long for House to get what he wants.

“I’d prefer neither option,” Wilson corrects him.

“Well, life can be so unfair.”

“Oh, you …”

House can see how much effort it takes Wilson not to finish that sentence. He balls his hands into fists and raises them as if he’s about to hit House or the car or himself, only to let them sink back down uselessly. What did he almost say?

“Say it, Wilson,” House challenges. “It’s healthy to let it all out.”

“House, you’re …” Wilson’s shoulders slump with a deep groan. He unclenches his fists, only to clenches them again in frustration. “… you’re impossible.”

“Come on, you can do better than that.”

For a second, it looks as if Wilson is about to break. The corners of his mouth twitch, and a shiver runs through him. Still, it doesn’t matter what House says to him, he keeps his eyes firmly fixed on House’s, that perpetual fire burning brightly. It makes him look attractive, that brand of righteous anger, more attractive than he knows. House itches to tell him that, to push this fight in a direction neither one of them has any control over. But he can’t quite bring himself to do it. The outcome is too volatile.

Instead, he swallows down that heady curiosity and watches Wilson collect himself with a sharp intake of breath.

“I’m not going to give you another prescription for Vicodin. And I’ll make damn sure you’re not forging my signature again. Or getting it from somewhere else for that matter.”

“God, you’re boring,” House goads him. “That’s not what I meant. I want you to shout at me. Call me names. Hit me, if you want.”

It takes his brain a few moments to catch up with his words. Did he just tell Wilson to … hit him? The image takes up most of the space in his head before he can fight it down, and his skin burns as if Wilson has already done it. And Wilson … he doesn’t seem to have heard him or at least it doesn’t faze him, the way House stumbles over his inconvenient desire. All he does is stand there, eyebrows drawn together, glaring at House, while House can’t stop his throat from drying out. It’s embarrassing how little control he has over himself when it comes to Wilson. And how much control Wilson has when it comes to him.

“No, I won’t let you provoke me.”

“We’re all alone.” House waves his hand at the empty fields and picket fences and bare trees around them. “No one can see us.” Then he adds, just to see if it’ll finally break Wilson, “Just do whatever you want with me.”

“House, you—”

House doesn’t give Wilson the chance to finish that sentence. Instead, he pushes him, once, not hard enough to do serious damage, but hard enough to startle the other man. And, sure enough, Wilson grunts in surprise and stumbles back a few steps, his eyes wide.

“Come on,” House says, teeth clenched. “No one is as passive and as docile as you pretend to be.”

Wilson’s voice is quiet when he says, “That’s enough, House.”

It’s not. House pushes him again, the way his palm connects with Wilson’s chest sending a stab of pain through his arm. But this time Wilson is prepared for it. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch.

“Say what you really mean. Just once.” Coming from anyone else, it would sound like a plea. Coming from House, it sounds like a challenge. “Just once. Come on.” He raises his hand, ready to push Wilson a third time.

Before he can make contact with Wilson’s shoulder, Wilson’s hand is there, intercepting his. He grips House’s wrist, and there’s a horrible, dangerous bite in his voice when he spits, “I said that’s enough.”

It’s similar to being high, House thinks, the way his entire body tightens and relaxes at the same time. Wilson’s hand feels so, so warm wrapped around his wrist, igniting his skin. When Wilson tightens his hold on him, his vision blurs. He should probably put a stop to it right here, that’s what a sensible person would do. Luckily, he doesn’t know when to stop.

He tries to break loose. It’s an experiment, really, to see how far he can push Wilson. “I say when it’s enough.”

The thing is, with someone like Wilson, there’s no way to control the experiment, not really, no matter how much he tries to convince Wilson of his insipidity. Because when Wilson finally breaks, it happens with the force of an avalanche.

Wilson twists House’s arm so it‘s pressed against his back, knocking the air from his lungs. House tries to steady himself, loosen his shoulder to compensate for the strain Wilson is putting on it, but then Wilson manhandles him so his front is pressed against the car. House groans at the sudden, sharp pain shooting up his leg.

Fuck. He hadn’t expected that.

Wilson presses into House, keeping him tightly locked in place by pushing both their hands into the small of House’s back. It hurts. Wilson must know that it does, and yet he keeps going. And suddenly, the pain turns into something quite different. House’s dick twitches, curious. There is no way Wilson knows what he’s doing to him, but House needs him to keep going.

House leans back, straining against Wilson’s grip.

Wilson widens his stance, gravel scrunching beneath the soles of his shoes. His voice low, his mouth close to House’s ear he says, “Someone should put you in your place for once.”

Oh, this is … did House hear that right? Did Wilson—Wilson … did he really just say that? Why is it so hard for House to get his brain to form a single coherent thought? Why does he feel so lightheaded? All he is able to focus on is Wilson’s heavy breathing right behind him and the way he holds onto House’s wrist, hurting him without injuring him. It makes him want to do reckless things.

“And that someone is you? I doubt that,” House presses out from between clenched teeth.

Wilson leans back slightly, and the strain on House’s body is relieved. He should feel triumph at having put Wilson in his place, but a dull disappointment is all there is. Until Wilson speaks again.

“Put your right hand on your head.”

It feels as if all the blood in House’s brain rushes down, leaving him feeling more lightheaded than most drugs manage to do. He tries to wriggle out of Wilson’s grip again, and this time Wilson doesn’t even tighten his hold. With the way he’s already holding him in place, House doesn’t stand a chance.

“Do it yourself,” House mumbles, but Wilson still hears him.

Wilson goes for House’s right arm, bringing it up so the palm presses against House’s head. “I’m done arguing with you,” he snaps in a tone of voice that doesn’t sound like Wilson at all. And yet there is something in the precise way he moves that is all Wilson.

House groans, pretending it’s from the strain this new position puts on his body and not from how hard he’s getting. One part of him hopes that Wilson won’t find out he has this much power over him, another part wants Wilson to discover exactly what it is he does to him.

“I’m not arguing,” House manages to say, “I’m just saying, if there’s something you want it’s best to—”

Wilson doesn’t let him finish, twists his other arm upwards instead, so House’s left hand presses against his skull too. “Don’t move,” he hisses, shoving House against the car with a push between the shoulder blades.

Even if House wanted to move, he couldn’t. He’s biting his tongue to keep himself from groaning, but the way Wilson pushed his hard cock into the side of the car without even knowing what he was doing makes it almost impossibly hard to stay in control over his body.

House stays in the exact position Wilson put him in, remaining as still as possible so his leg won’t cramp up. The funny thing is, he doesn’t feel it right now, even though he should. The way Wilson pushed him around was less than gentle, and yet … The throbbing ache between his legs is taking his mind off it. All these years he had no idea that all he needed was for his best friend to push him around a little to make the pain go away.

Said best friend is currently on the other side of the car, looking for something in the glove box. Whatever it is, it can only be bad news. House shifts, welcoming a shot of adrenaline that makes his heart pound hard in his chest. He can’t wait to find out what’s going to happen now that he has Wilson right where he wants him.

“Wilson, are you—,” he starts when he hears Wilson return.

“Shut up,” Wilson growls. Something in his voice makes House obey instantly.

Wilson grabs House’s right wrist again and brings it down. Before House’s brain has time to catch up, he hears the unmistakable sound of handcuffs snapping shut.

“Wilson?” He means it as a warning, but it comes out like a question, almost a curious one.

This time, Wilson doesn’t deign to answer, just repeats the process with his left wrist. When he’s done, House experimentally tries to pull his arms apart, only to find them locked firmly in place. From the way the cuffs dig into his skin it’s easy to tell that they’re not the cheap stuff either—he won’t be able to pull them apart with brute force.

“Turn around,” Wilson orders.

House’s entire word tilts on its axis as his brain catches up with his body. Wilson—James Wilson—just put him in handcuffs and is ordering him around. It’s a shame he can’t understand what he’s supposed to be doing because Wilson’s voice is far away. House knows he’s panting as if he just ran twenty miles without stopping, he knows his dick is straining against his jeans, but that’s where his awareness ends. And he’s glad too because if he had any mental resources left to focus on Wilson, he—

Oh no! Letting his thoughts wander to Wilson, even if it’s just in passing, is a mistake. His adrenaline spikes and he gulps down air as if he has trouble breathing. This can’t be Wilson, right? He must have traveled to a parallel universe. Or maybe this is a dream. Maybe he crashed his bike and is dying, and this is his brain’s way of dealing with it. Because Wilson, the Wilson he knows … he doesn’t push House around, he doesn’t carry fucking handcuffs in his glove box, he doesn’t give orders to House, he—

Wilson grabs the hair at the back of House’s head and yanks. “Turn. Around.”

“Fuck.”

Wait … did he just say that out loud?

Wilson chuckles.

The answer must be yes then.

House turns around, taking his time, pretending his leg is hurting by refusing to put any weight on it. Let Wilson think he caused him pain. He even leans back against the car, chest heaving for good measure, all the while desperately searching for some purchase against the vehicle, for a way to ground himself.

Wilson … he doesn’t seem to care. He scans House from the top of his head to the tip of his toes, a self-satisfied look on his face. It suits him. Especially when Wilson’s gaze lingers on the bulge between House’s legs and a little smile appears on his face. Or maybe House just wants it to. Because the next second it is gone.

“Get down on your knees.”

What? “I don’t think—,” House starts.

“I don’t need you to think, I need you to do as you’re told just once in your life.”

House pushes against the car harder before slowly lowering himself to the ground. His leg does protest at that, but the pain is bearable, especially when Wilson is looking at him with a hungry gaze in his eyes. It’s a puzzle, isn’t it? One that he can solve if he just finds the right combi—

“Well done,” Wilson says when House is kneeling on the gravel in front of him, shoulders drawn back to relieve his arms.

The condescension in his voice sends hot pleasure shooting down House’s spine and straight into his groin. If he had known Wilson could be like this, he would’ve pushed him over the edge years ago.

Wilson steps closer to him, saying something else, but House can’t hear him. He’s too busy processing the fact that his eyes are level with Wilson’s groin now, and if Wilson would just take another step, House could press his face against it. The urge to do so is so overwhelming he finds himself leaning forward before he can stop himself. Especially once he notices the bulge straining against Wilson’s dress pants.

Wilson barks out a command, snaps his fingers in front of House’s eyes. Then his fingers are in House’s hair again, yanking his head back so House has to look up at him.

That does it. House’s hearing returns with a loud pop. He has never seen Wilson like this, towering over him, brown eyes so dark they look black, and something in the way he’s holding onto House’s hair makes House want to obey his every command. It’s an irritating compulsion.

“I told you to stop thinking.” Wilson sounds frustrated, tightens the hold on House’s hair.

House whimpers, purposefully, and Wilson lets go of him with a small shove. Then something in Wilson’s gaze flickers and he blinks slowly. It’s as if he’s coming to his senses, as if the weight of all of this comes crushing down on him. House can see it, the way the little cogs in Wilson’s brain start to spin as he realizes they can still stop this, go back to arguing like normal people.

It’s the last thing House wants. Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop, is what he wants to say.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says instead, doing his best to keep his voice steady. If it comes out higher than usual, it’s not his fault. “It’s impossible for me to form a single coherent thought right now.”

Wilson’s hand twitches, but he doesn’t go for House’s hair again. “Don’t mock me.”

Of course Wilson would think House was being insincere. “I’m not.” He hears it too now, the way everything he says sounds like a lie. “Are you really that much of an idiot?”

“Shut up.”

They’re almost on familiar ground again. It’s a steady back and forth, a predictable dance they’ve been practicing for years. It comes easy to them. Time to ruin it.

“Make me.”

“Oh, believe me,” Wilson says with a dry laugh, “there’s nothing I want to do more.”

House fights as he tries to keep his head held high because all he wants to do is fall down at Wilson’s feet. “Then why don’t you?” he manages to say. “Make me.”

Fuck, why did his voice break on that second word?

Wilson must have heard it too. He raises his eyebrows slightly, curiously, as if presented with a particularly interesting puzzle. House shifts; the way Wilson keeps staring at him makes his heartbeat thunder in his ears. If Wilson stepped closer, he’d be able to see House’s pulse flutter in the veins on his neck. And House wants him to see.

That realization makes him want to bite and tear and maim. “I said make me.” It should sound venomous, but instead it comes out like a plea, like he’s begging Wilson to tear out his heart and stomp on it while the gravel beneath him tears open his knees.

It’s all the permission Wilson needs.

The thing about him is that he is nothing if not precise, careful; vicious voices would call him meticulous and mean it as an insult. To House, it’s a challenge, something he wants to break through most days. Here, on this dirt road in the middle of nowhere with the sounds of the night surrounding them, the carefully practiced way with which Wilson unbuckles his belt without the slightest hint of hesitation makes House’s mouth go dry and his head go quiet.

Wilson chuckles, and House shudders. “If I had known that’s all it takes to shut you up …”

House doesn’t say anything. Nothing Wilson could say to him right now is as important as the sight of him reaching into his trousers to grab himself. House knows his mouth is hanging open, but he can’t be bothered to care. Not when he can watch as Wilson closes his hand around his hard cock and—

Wilson snaps his fingers, and House flinches. “Hey! Eyes on me.”

House does as he’s told, letting his head fall back so he can take in Wilson’s face. Wilson’s cheeks are slightly flushed and his dark eyes are bright with lust; if House wasn’t already kneeling, that sight would’ve brought him to his knees.

“It’s time you learned that your actions have consequences,” Wilson goes on. House hears the rustling of Wilson’s trousers, followed by a flutter of Wilson’s eyelids. God, he has never seen a sight more beautiful than this … “So you’ll do exactly as you’re told. Understood?”

“Can I suck you off?” The words are out before House can stop them. If Wilson says yes … House is prepared to give him anything he asks for in return.

“Say please.”

Fuck, okay. House licks his lips. He can do this. He can beg for Wilson’s cock if that’s what it takes.

“Can I suck you off, please?” he tries, his tongue struggling to wrap itself around the unfamiliar word.

Wilson’s teeth dig into his bottom lip, just for a second, and House curses those handcuffs. If Wilson hadn’t made him wear them, he could reach out and knock Wilson’s steadily moving hand away to take over. Maybe Wilson would even moan his name … the thought makes his stomach flip.

“You can do better than that.”

House inhales sharply. “Please … I—I want to feel you on …,” he swallows, “… on my tongue. I need to–need to make you feel good. Please, James.”

The whole world goes quiet as that statement hangs in the air between them.

“No.”

“No?” House echoes. He must have misheard.

“No.”

It’s a groan this time. Is Wilson’s hand moving faster? House doesn’t risk a glance, but from the chink of the metal bracelet of Wilson’s watch moving faster in time with the motion of his hand on his cock, and from the way his eyes glaze over it seems like it is. Is he … getting off on this? What the—

“I told you … you need to learn that your actions have consequences.”

It seems impossible, but House can feel himself getting harder. “Are you serious right now?”

“Look at you.” Wilson groans again, and the sound shoots straight to House’s groin. “I keep telling you to shut up and yet you keep pushing me. You’re practically begging to get punished.”

House snaps his jaws shut. He hates that Wilson is right, hates how easy it is for him to see straight through House.

“That’s better.” Wilson’s eyes fall shut and he tilts his head back, so House gets a prime view of him swallowing hard. He immediately mirrors Wilson, but since his throat is dry, the motion borders on painful.

For a while, House can hear no other sounds than Wilson’s shallow breathing, and the wet sounds of him jerking off. Both just fuel the fire already burning in his veins, and it won’t take long before there is nothing left. He’s so hard it hurts, but Wilson doesn’t even seem to consider House’s pleasure right now, and for some crazed reason that thought only turns House on more. 

“See?” Wilson’s voice is deep now; it sounds as if there is something stuck at the back of his throat that makes it hard for him to get enough air into his lungs. “This isn’t so hard, is it?”

The only response House can manage is a needy groan. He isn’t sure how much more of this he can take before he goes insane.

“I think you deserve a little reward. You can look.”

House wants to take his time, take in Wilson’s body as he slowly loses control and lets go. But his eyes shoot down so fast it gives him whiplash and he hears something crack in his neck. Not that he cares.

Wilson’s hand is moving too fast to make out any details in the dim light, but House immediately fixates on the way he brushes his thumb over the tip of his cock with every stroke. The urge to press his tongue exactly where that digit makes contact is so overwhelming he shuffles closer on his knees before he can stop himself. To his surprise, Wilson lets him.

Wilson grabs his chin, locks it in tightly between his thumb and forefinger, and the unexpected touch feels as if he just got an electric shock straight to the heart.

“Open up,” Wilson says, forcing House’s mouth open. He sounds wrecked.

House raises his eyes to see Wilson’s reaction to him not only opening his mouth but rolling out his tongue, obediently anticipating Wilson’s needs.

“Oh … fuck,” Wilson breathes, and it’s exactly what House wants to hear right before Wilson comes with a groan, all over House’s outstretched tongue.

House knows he should wait for Wilson to tell him what to do next, but he’s not going to waste an opportunity like this. He swallows quickly, making sure to keep his eyes on Wilson so he knows he’s watching, then waits for his world to come crashing down.

Wilson tucks himself away as methodically and quickly as he did when he started this, then rubs his hands together, his eyes directed upward into the dark night sky. House can see him thinking, and a heavy weight settles in the pit of his stomach. He needs to do something about it.

“Did that feel good?” he asks. He means it mockingly, but as soon as the words are out, he’s surprised to discover it’s a sincere question. He desperately wants the answer to be yes, which surprises him even more; the thought that this might have been the final page of their story and not the start of something new makes the dull throbbing in his leg return with irritating intensity.

“God,” Wilson groans and spins around. He covers his face with his hands.

It’s not an immediate rejection. House can work with that. “It did, didn’t it?”

“You shouldn’t have let me do that.” Wilson’s voice is muffled.

“Oh, the righteous Dr Wilson returns,” House mocks. It helps to do this on familiar ground. “I liked the asshole more.”

Wilson laughs, and House’s lips twitch at that sound. “We’re not doing this every time you piss me off.”

“That’s a shame.”

“I’m not conditioning you to …” Wilson stops in the middle of the sentence as if the weight of a realization is crashing down on him. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” House replies. “But I didn’t think you’d actually go for it. Wilson, I’ve been trying—”

Wilson spins around, facing House now. “You’re a manipulative bastard.”

“Oh, finally you’re saying what you really mean.”

“I should just leave you here in the middle of the road. Take your bike keys too.”

“Do it.” You know I’ll wait for you to come back. “If that’s what it takes for you to get going.”

“Would it really be so bad to ask for sex like a normal person?”

House laughs. “Because that’s what you just did?”

“You were begging—”

“And you liked it. Don’t deny it,” House adds quickly because Wilson’s mouth flies open in protest.

“You know what …” Wilson doesn’t finish the sentence.

“What?” House presses. “All out of threats for tonight?”

Wilson pinches the bridge of his nose. “This is how we’re going to do this. I—”

“You haven’t even untied me yet,” House interrupts him. “So don’t pretend this isn’t doing it for you.”

Wilson straightens his back. He takes a step toward House, stops, balls his hands into fists, then rushes forward, fumbles with the key to the handcuffs, and unlocks them. They fall to the ground with a dull clank, but House doesn’t move.

“Get up,” Wilson orders, lightly touching House’s knee with his shoe.

“No.”

“House—”

“Just admit it, Wilson.”

“I just came on your tongue. What more do you want from me?”

The words ring across the empty fields, and they ring in House’s ears with the force of a slap.

“I told you; I like the asshole.”

Wilson grabs him by the collar of his leather jacket and hauls him up, yanks him so his back connects with the side of the car. “You like this?” he bites. “You like me pushing you around, is that it?”

“Yes,” House answers, fighting hard to keep his eyes on Wilson’s. If he looks away now …

Wilson crowds him against the car, chest pressed against chest. For one wild moment, House thinks Wilson is going to kiss him, but Wilson grips his chin again, holding him in place.

“This is how we’re going to do this,” he repeats his earlier words. “You won’t touch your Vicodin for a week. You’ll take a drug test. If it’s clean …”

“Yes?” House breathes when Wilson doesn’t finish the sentence.

“Well, you’ll find out if it’s clean. If it isn’t, I’ll never touch you again.”

“You … you haven’t even touched me yet,” House stammers. The evidence of Wilson’s oversight is still straining against the confines of his jeans. “Besides, you couldn’t see it through.”

Wilson shrugs. “Maybe not. But I also can’t watch you ruin your life.”

“Wilson—”

Wilson lets go of him and steps away from the car. “Go home, House.”

House can’t trust his legs, so he doesn’t move.

“Come on.” Wilson gently nudges him away from the car, like you would shoo away a dog that doesn’t want to leave your side.

“Take me home,” House says.

Wilson shakes his head. “No.” He opens the door to his car, climbs in, and starts the engine. He’s gone before House can protest … or make sense of it all.

Alone on that dark dirt road, the familiar pain sinks its teeth into his leg. He groans, rubs his thigh, feels bile rise in his throat. Carefully, he limps back to his bike and leans up against it, breathing a sigh of relief.

His hand goes for the pocket of his leather jacket. Wilson didn’t specify when that Vicodin-free week had to start. And he just left him standing here after House did everything he asked of him. So Wilson really can’t blame him for getting his kicks elsewhere.

House shoves his hand into the pocket only to find it empty. The other one is empty too. He was sure he—

Wilson.

That anger Wilson had managed to dull, just like he had dulled the pain in House’s leg, returns tenfold. House climbs onto his bike with a pained huff, then brings it to life with a loud howl. He twists the throttle angrily, his sight set on two red lights disappearing in the distance. If he hurries, he can catch up to Wilson in no time.