by Kass

Written in response to a throwaway line of Wilson's in episode 2 x 02, "Autopsy." Many thanks to Christy for the beta!

"You're sounding almost human." Wilson helped himself to a cup of coffee.

"See? Mincing antihistamines works."

"I'm not going to ask how you got so good at that. And I still think a stint in a steam room would do you good."

House picked up his yo-yo and let it fly. "Hm. If only I had a steam room. I wonder how quickly I can get one installed?"

To his credit Wilson didn't flinch, even when the toy almost grazed his foot. "You could always go to a spa."

House let the yo-yo zip back to his palm, raising his eyebrows as theatrically as he knew how. "A spa? Isn't that a little...I don't know...girly?"

"Fine, a Turkish bath. Sound better?"

"Will that masseuse be on hand?"

"I don't think I can afford her services again. And now that I think about it, the nearest hammam is probably in Queens. Guess you'll have to suffer through In Touch Day Spa."

"Oh?" The yo-yo whipped out, then returned to his palm with a satisfying smack.

"If you think your masculinity can take it. I took the liberty of reserving us a sauna for Saturday afternoon."

"You and your liberties." House pretended to consider. "Tell you what. I think my masculinity can handle the blow’—if I can give you a lift on my new motorcycle."

The look on Wilson's face was almost worth the 10K, all by itself.

House had expected a big wooden room with a dozen people in it. Instead the attendant led them down a hall to a door marked "11" and handed Wilson the key.

Inside was an anteroom leading to a small sauna, no bigger than a walk-in closet. There was also a whirlpool tub and a little daybed covered in navy vinyl.

"You bring all the boys here, don't you?"

House felt vaguely cheated when Wilson didn't rise to the bait. "C'mon," Wilson said, "chop chop," and started unbuttoning.

House crooked his cane over the doorhandle, braced himself on the daybed, and yanked his shirt over his head. Resentment flared while he was shoving his jeans down’—it didn't seem fair that he was suffering the indignities of undressing in company when he wasn't going to get the upside of sex’—but Wilson was either too merciful, or too smart, to watch him.

When House looked up again, Wilson was stepping through the glass door into their own private oven. Wrapped in a towel, thank God; that would make this whole thing easier to bear. House grabbed his own towel and followed.

The heat washed over House like a tidal wave, and when Wilson poured a dipper of water over the hot rocks on the heating unit the room filled with eucalyptus-scented steam. The cedar bench was more comfortable than House expected, though, and he had to admit the heat felt pretty good.

They lolled there for a while, sitting side by side, facing the source of the steam. "I can't believe you bought a motorcycle," Wilson said, eventually.

"Hey, you told me to live a little."

Wilson turned his head to look at him. "Not that I'm complaining, but when did I say that, exactly?"

"Last week. Cancer Girl."

"I didn't mean to buy a motorcycle!"

"What, you thought I'd steal a kiss from Chase, too?" House smirked. "Sorry, not my type."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Bummer for you, then, because neither is Foreman, and you've already dissed Cameron."

"Who says Foreman isn't my type?"

"He hates you!"

"So? Maybe bickering turns me on."

"Yeah, right. That's actually why I fight with you so much. It's my secret plot to drive you crazy with lust."

It did drive him pretty crazy, actually, though House wasn't about to admit that. "Not very secret anymore."

"Shut up." Wilson was grinning.

Half-naked Wilson, towel loose around his hips, starting to sweat. House promised himself, with all the sincerity in the world, that he would jerk off the split second he got home. The motorcycle ride with Wilson pressed against his back had made him half-hard, and though the petty humiliation of wrestling his clothes off had dampened his spirits, they were rising again.

House closed his eyes and abandoned himself to the pretty slide-show of an imagined Wilson without the towel. Some time later, Wilson nudged him in the ribs. "Penny for your thoughts?"

"Trust me, you don't want to know."

"Hey, they pay me pretty well, I think I can afford a penny."

Annoyed at being startled out of his reverie, House decided to actually tell him. Serve the bastard right. "I was thinking about whacking off when I get home."

Wilson's mouth tightened slightly. "Anyone ever tell you you're a tease?"

"Me?" House hoped he looked innocent; this was starting to get fun. "A tease is someone who promises something he doesn't plan to deliver. I have every intention of whacking off when I get home. Where's the tease in that?"

"A lot of guys would consider this conversation a come-on," Wilson pointed out, and reached across the sauna to pour another dipper of water on the coals.


Wilson was silent.

"Now who's the tease," House muttered.

"What?" Wilson sounded indignant.

"I give you an opening like that, and you're just going to drop it?"

It was some imp of the perverse making the words come out of his mouth. House knew perfectly well that this conversation was a bad idea. He tried to avoid circumstances that might lead to his admitting just how prominent a role Wilson played in his fantasy life. Unless they were both drunk, in which case he figured he could say anything he wanted, because Wilson never remembered it the next day.

"I'm dropping it because it's not worth working myself into a lather over you when I know perfectly well you're straight."

"You're married," House countered, without thinking.

"Barely." The word was muttered, but House heard it clearly enough. And then he processed what Wilson had said a second before.

Only a profound act of will kept him from trembling. Reflexively he reached for his Vicodin: the leg didn't hurt, but fumbling with the pill bottle would have given him something to do with his hands. Of course, the Vicodin was in his pocket, which was in the anteroom. He didn't even have his cane.

But holy mother of God. Wilson wasn't just yanking his chain. Adrenaline coursed through him. This was more terrifying than his first ride on the motorcycle.

He waited just long enough to get Wilson off-guard before saying, "A lather, huh? Wow, I really am going to whack off when I get home."

"Jerk." But there was no rancor in it; Wilson's annoyance had passed. He was returning to their usual vaguely flirty banter, ostensibly devoid of intent.

"Besides, you like tits, and I'm sorely lacking in that department."

"Yeah, I'm not sure your searing intellect makes up for that deficiency, really." Wilson sounded genuinely regretful.

"Gee, thanks."

"Though your motorcycle might."

House laughed. They sat for a moment in silence. His head was buzzing, and not just from the heat. Was he actually going to say this?

"I just have to correct you on one point." This was either going to be one of the smartest things he'd ever done, or one of the stupidest.

"Have I ever told you how much I enjoy hearing that?"

House ignored him. "You seem to be operating on the assumption that I'm not interested."

If House hadn't been looking very closely, he wouldn't have noticed Wilson's body tensing. "In what?"

"In you."

Wilson inhaled hard, but when he spoke his voice was surprisingly even; House was impressed. "Yeah, come to think of it, I have been operating on that assumption."

"Well, don't."

To whatever limited extent he'd given this revelation any thought, he'd assumed they would have to talk about it for a long time before anything new or exciting happened. To his pleasant surprise, he was wrong.

Within about forty-five seconds Wilson kissed him, long and slow and with a lot of tongue. One arm wrapped around him; the other hand sketched an arc across his chest, pausing to tease a nipple.

"Harder," House mumbled into Wilson's mouth, and Wilson obliged.

Oh, yeah.

And then Wilson licked along his jaw to his neck, bit gently, and said, "Can I do something inappropriate?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

House was pretty proud of how nonchalant that sounded, until Wilson's hand closed around his dick and he moaned. Wilson's grip was strong and sure, and the terrycloth of his towel rubbed him in all the wrong ways, and all the right ones, too.

"You're not going to whack off when you get home," Wilson whispered, just beneath his ear. His breath on House's sweaty skin made him shudder.

"Why's’—that?" he managed, barely resisting the urge to thrust wildly into Wilson's hand.

"Because I want you to fuck me."

House bit back a whimper as he came, hard, all over his towel.

He closed his eyes and leaned on the cedar-planked wall. Wilson pressed a soft kiss against his shoulder and slowly withdrew his hand from House's lap. House heard the creak of the bench and then the hiss of water hitting rocks, and as the steam engulfed them for an instant everything was hot and dark and endorphin-laced, like an orgasm in the womb.

When he opened his eyes Wilson was leaning back against the wall beside him, legs akimbo, looking at him. His erection was visible through his towel, but he wasn't touching himself; just waiting.

House liked that, probably more than he ought to admit.

"I think," he said, voice a little grittier than usual but under the circumstances that seemed only fair, "we should have done this a long time ago."

"What you mean 'we,' white man?"

House bit back a smile. "Right," he said, and reached over to tug Wilson's towel free. And then leaned over, bracing himself with one hand, and slid his mouth over Wilson's beautiful erection.

Wilson groaned and let his head fall back with a thunk. House would have smiled if his mouth had been able to stretch in that direction.

He hadn't done this in a long time, but apparently it was like riding a motorcycle: the body didn't forget.

"Oh," Wilson said. And then, more desperately, "God. Greg."

When he came’—thanks to a flutter of tongue; yeah, House thought smugly, he still had it’—Wilson exhaled a sigh.

House pulled back, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and bit back a wince as he manoeuvred himself to a sitting position again. He hadn't been bent over for long, but his leg wasn't happy.

"There's a hot tub out there, you know," Wilson said, somehow sounding sated and concerned at the same time.

"And a massage table."

"I suppose I could be convinced in that direction."

"A little laying-on of hands."

Wilson snorted. "Just you wait," he said, and stood, and offered House a hand.

"I can get up," House said, irritably, because even with his leg twinging and his cane in the next room, he could, and it pissed him off that Wilson didn't acknowledge that.

"Maybe I just like touching you," Wilson said, as he moved in to steady House with an arm around his shoulders. "You ever consider that?"

Wilson's body was strong and slick against his. And actually he wasn't sure he could walk unaided at the moment, though he wasn't about to admit that.

"Huh," he said, and reached for the door.

The End