karaokegal (karaokegal) wrote,

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"Some Say That We Are Players..." H/W NC17 Wordcount 2813

Title: Some Say That We Are Players...
Author: karaokegal
Fandom: House MD
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: NC17
Wordcount: 2813
Spoilers for Resignation
Notes: Birthday fic for the lovely timbershiver who wanted to see Wilson in (and out of) scrubs and House wearing glasses. (OK, the glasses might have been my idea.)Contains smut, angst and a not completely miserable ending.
Hugs, kisses and undying devotion to Beta Goddess Carol.

My friends are all so cynical, refuse to keep the faith.

It was hard to say which was more disturbing: finding Wilson in the hospital chapel or the fact that he was wearing scrubs. On further review, House decided on Door Number 3. It wasn’t the chapel or the scrubs. It was the dogs on the scrubs. Puppy dogs. Cute cartoon puppy dogs. The kind a nurse would wear, probably a pediatrics nurse.

What they were doing on Wilson was a mystery. House suspected the answer would lead to Wilson having some kind of relationship with said nurse -- not a satisfactory solution. Instead of thinking about that, House turned his attention toward the first part of the puzzle: why was Wilson in the chapel? As far as House knew, Wilson’s Judaism extended as far as knowing a smattering of Yiddish and possessing a free lifetime pass on the guilt-trip express.

He gestured for Wilson to slide over on the pew so he could sit down.

“I think you should have turned left at Albuquerque. This doesn’t look like your shul.”

“It’s not what it looks like,” he whispered, clearly trying to suppress a smile in deference to the surroundings and the obligatory weeper in the front row.

“Where have I heard that before?”

“Trust me, House. If I were going to pray, I wouldn’t do it here.”

“Of course not. You should eat here, piss in the cafeteria and talk to god in the men’s room. Come to think if it, that’s pretty much the only place I do talk to him.”

“House, please.”

House focused on Wilson’s voice and the eyes, wide and pleading. He tried not to look too closely at anything else, such as the pale upper arms, the strong forearms with their sprinkling of dark hair, or the small amount of skin visible through the v-neck.

Enticing, but infuriating. Only he was supposed to see that much of Wilson, not that he’d seen nearly enough lately. If there were any way to get Wilson out of those things right now, in front of god or anyone else who cared to watch, he’d do it…but he made the mistake of looking down and there were the goddamn puppies, with their inane smiles and floppy ears. Suddenly the only reason to strip off the scrubs was to make sure Cameron didn’t get a gander. He could practically hear her cooing over the cuteness.

Wilson looked at his watch and sighed.

“Oh. Now I get it. Internet dating. I’ll be the schmuck in the puppies.. Want me to hide behind the pulpit so I can page you if it turns out she’s been gilding the lily on her picture with a little Photoshop action?”

“It’s your fault I’m here anyway.”

“You’ve been trying to blame your misery on me since Trish caught you with that waitress.”

“You told the waitress I thought she was hot. And you’re the one who dosed me with speed.”

There had to be some kind of prize for creating a non sequitur with a nine-year gap involved.

“And now you’ve got a habit and your dealer is going to break your kneecaps if you don’t do a boob job on his girlfriend?”

“I was completely inappropriate with a woman who came in for a breast exam.”

“Yeah, you already told me. Don’t worry. I haven’t been sued in at least two months. Tell Cuddy to use some of my legal defense money to fight the harassment suit.”

Wilson shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. A full blown meltdown was well under way.

“It’s not a lawsuit. She liked it. She asked me for a follow-up even though all her tests came back negative.”

“So why are you cowering in here instead of giving her the treatment she wants?”

He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“You don’t want her because she’s healthy?” House mused out loud. “No wonder you and Cameron can’t get along. Too much competition for the lame, the halt and the blind.”

“I don’t want her because…” Wilson trailed off, clearly wanting to say something, but not able to do so, maybe not in the chapel or maybe not to the person who most needed to hear it. “I don’t want her. OK? Is that so hard to believe? Can you stop being cynical for two seconds?

“One…nope. Sorry. Still no faith.”

“Too bad. Because it’s the truth.”

“So tell her. You must have a few really great variations on “it’s not you, it’s me” in your arsenal. Blame it on the speed.”

Wilson’s glare and pinched lips announced the impossibility of that course of action. This was the downside of Wilson’s need for approval.

“So she hasn’t seen…those?”

“What’s wrong with these?”

“Aside from being a twelve-year-old girl’s wet dream? Do twelve-year-old girls have wet dreams?”



“Her name is Monique. She didn’t want to do chemo because of her hair and I promised that when it happened, I’d wear whatever goofy outfit she wanted. Today she showed up for her appointment, bald and smiling. She had these all ready for me.”

“You can be coerced into looking like an idiot by a thirteen-year-old with no hair?”


House shook his head in disgust, but at least Wilson had calmed down somewhat and was even starting to smile.

“What are you going to do for me if I rescue you from the terror of exam room one?”

He emphasized “for me” with raised eyebrows and a look that Wilson should be able to interpret easily enough.

It still took a few seconds for the light to dawn and once it did, Wilson drew out his apparent consideration of the matter until House was ready to stomp out, leaving Wilson to his puppy-dog-clad devices.

Wilson wasn’t an idiot, but he could certainly be a tease. “Take them off?”

“You wait here. In about fifteen minutes, start praying like you mean it. Loud and ostentatious. As though you were saying Kaddish for your mother.”


“Just do it.”

House got up, using the back of the pew in front for leverage. Wooden benches weren’t good for the leg, but the knowledge that Wilson’s obligation would be paid off in sexual currency offered some relief. He couldn’t resist singing a little tune on the way out.

“And they called it puppy scrubs…”


We all enjoy the madness ’cause we know we’re gonna fade away.

Wilson didn’t bother knocking. House wouldn’t get up anyway. He’d just lie there on the couch pretending to be absorbed in something on television until Wilson gave in and used his key. It was a typical House ploy, designed to remind Wilson that he had the key and it was his own mishegas keeping him in that hotel room

Steve’s cage was on the coffee table, but the lord of the manor was nowhere to be seen, producing a moment of panic as Wilson scanned the room seeing the phantom of House lying on the floor amid pills, booze and his own vomit.

He tried to shake off the memory and all the images that went with it. The last few months had made it difficult to remember that he’d first fallen for House because they had fun together. He wanted that feeling back. Starting now.

“House, where the hell are you?”

Wilson had kept the scrubs on all afternoon just so he could give House the satisfaction of watching their removal. He’d been quite a hit at the budget committee meeting. Cuddy was hardly able to restrain herself from breaking into giggles at the sight of him. Earlier, the combination of puppy dogs and fervent Hebrew prayers had caused Jamie Adams – she of the negative breast cancer tests – to look at him with abject horror before running from the chapel as though the devil were after her.

Wearing the thin material and silly pattern wasn’t the worst hardship, but he was ready for it to be over. He placed his garment bag over the sofa and continued the search, which inevitably led to the bedroom. He found House lying on the bed wearing nothing but a bathrobe and earphones.

Correction: House was wearing his glasses.

He peered at Wilson over the top of the trashy magazine he was reading. Wilson caught a glimpse of Britney Spears before the glossy pages hit the floor. House removed the earphones and did something with a remote so that the music came out of a wall-speaker. At least it wasn’t “The Stripper”.

My life a wreck you're making
You know I'm yours for just the taking.


Somehow the glasses accentuated House’s mental superiority and physical fragility at the same time. He’d seen House change so much since they’d first met, and he knew it was the pills, whether House would ever admit it or not. He lived on caffeine and not enough food, almost none of it healthy. The need for reading glasses could just have been age, but Wilson's notable denial skills weren’t that good. He knew he was attracted to the hints of vulnerability.

Wilson met House’s eyes through the lenses. For two men who enjoyed verbal jousting, there were times when no words were needed at all. A mere nod of House’s head and the hint of teeth over his lower lip made an eloquent statement that Wilson interpreted as “Get those things off. Now.”

He was happy to oblige. Even the ridiculously loose-fitting scrub pants were too tight. With a pull at the drawstring, the puppies hit the floor. They tried to cling to his shoes, but the whole collection of encumbrances was swiftly kicked away. He tried not to hear the dogs whimpering in dismay at their shabby treatment.

There was no way to take the tunic off gracefully, but House was staring at him as though he’d be willing to tear it off with his bare hands, so Wilson pulled it over his head in a quick motion, leaving himself as vulnerable as only a man in Jockey shorts with a growing erection could be.

Instead of using the occasion for smug assertions or cruel jibes, House merely allowed his robe to fall open, demonstrating that they were on the same page. The sight of House’s body, his erection, and the glasses was almost too much. Wilson felt light-headed, as though he’d forgotten to breathe for too long.

He and House had found so many ways to push each other away and there was always the possibility it could happen again. Not this time, apparently, at least not tonight.

Wilson could make out a sinuous saxophone practically crooning “My Funny Valentine” and House was lying there, exposed, an invitation that Wilson wasn’t about to decline.

He couldn’t hide his own desire, but skin against skin would be too much and Wilson wanted this to last, wanted time to remind House and maybe himself that there were reasons they’d gotten into this thing in the first place.

House’s legs, for instance, and just because the robe artfully hid the scarred outer thigh didn’t mean that Wilson wasn’t going to re-introduce himself to the soft skin of that inner thigh, kissing gently up to the crease where leg met hip. At the first touch of his tongue, Wilson was gratified to hear a sharp intake of breath.

A glance upward confirmed what Wilson expected. House with his hands behind his head, watching with an amused, intrigued smile as though waiting for a test to come back with the result that no one else expected, but that he already knew.

House’s tendencies fit in perfectly with Wilson’s need to give pleasure and get approval, even if meant being a tease. He gave House’s cock a squeeze, feeling it hard against his hand. The temptation was to stay right there, take House’s dick into his mouth. He could have House at his mercy, at least temporarily. Wilson was that good and he knew it.

Instead he inched up, running his hands gently over House’s abdomen, running a thumb over one hipbone and flicking his tongue into House’s navel.

He followed the trail of hair up to House’s chest, nipping briefly at each nipple, allowing himself a smug grin at how well he could make House’s body respond to his touch. Nipples hardened against his tongue and long fingers finally moved into his hair, pushing Wilson’s head against his chest, demanding more pressure, sucking, biting, which Wilson was happy to provide. He could feel House’s elevated heart rate against his skin, feel his body temperature rising.

“Wilson.” The rough whisper was the first word that had been spoken since he’d entered the room. “You planning to keep those things on all night?”

Wilson maneuvered away from House long enough to free himself of the last constraint. His cock stood up, hard and throbbing, with a longing that went far beyond sex. No one else made him feel exactly this way. He’d once come dangerously close to spilling the beans to Cameron, but she’d chosen not to understand his slip of the tongue. He had to admit there were times where it would have been eminently satisfying to have her walk in on a moment like this: he and House, naked and hard. House squeezing lubricant out of a tube and warming it between his hands.

Eat your heart out, Allison, he thought vindictively. If she’d paid closer attention to some of House’s jokes, she wouldn’t be quite so shocked to find Wilson kissing House’s neck and jawline, heedless of the rough whiskers against his skin, and finally, finally, his lips. Tongues and teeth meeting and melding until they were both breathless.

House was working his fingers against Wilson’s ass, probing, preparing. Wilson squirmed, inviting House to go further.

As much as he loved seeing those hands on the piano or writing on the whiteboard, nothing compared to the feeling of one, long slippery finger passing the point of physical resistance, especially when he was looking at House’s face, upper lip dotting with sweat, eyes bright, still wearing the glasses.

He positioned himself over House’s cock and the finger was replaced with incredible fullness as he lowered his body slowly, taking House in all the way, never breaking eye contact.

“Oh god!” Wilson thought it, but the voice was House’s throatiest growl, finally acknowledging some kind of deity or at least the effect of Wilson’s ass. The position allowed House to fuck Wilson and control the pace. For Wilson, being able to see House’s face was worth a little awkwardness and the inevitable aches that would follow.

Things were rapidly approaching the point where he could stop caring about anything and give himself over to the sensations going through his body as House thrust up again and again and they moved in unison, cursing in harmony, building toward an explosion that would leave him drained and hoarse. Maybe House came first but Wilson was positive that no one came harder.



“This is not the space shuttle.”


“You’re not weightless.”

“Shit! Sorry.” Only the delicious exhaustion that followed sex with House could make him that careless.

Wilson quickly detached himself from House’s body, acutely aware of the emptiness that followed, as well as the leakage, when he stood up, assuming he was being dismissed, or at least sent to the sofa.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I was…I thought…”

“You think too much,” House grumbled as he rolled into his usual sleep position leaving a space next to him.

Wilson couldn’t argue with that.

He wished he could just climb into bed and stop thinking for a while, but he couldn’t. For one thing he absolutely had to go to the bathroom.

Once that burden was lifted, he was still stuck with his own brain and all the future conversations he imagined having with House, one of which would lead to another rift and start the cycle again.

The garment bag meant he could leave without needing to go back for his scrubs. He could leave…the same way he’d left…everybody. What had House said…when it really mattered, you were a coward. For years, he’d accused House of being emotionally afraid, but what if he’d been projecting his own fears? Dr. Pot, there’s a Mr. Kettle on line one.

House was the one making room on the bed, while Wilson was trying to sneak out like a thief in the night, ready to inflict pain now, just to avoid pain that might happen in the future, and who knew how long that future was anyway?

One more chance, he thought, heading back to the bedroom and praying it wasn’t too late.

Tags: house/wilson, housefic, nc17

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