Archive of Our Own

About a month and a half after he rides Dylan Crandall on the Eames chair in his office, House gets sick.

He wakes up dry-heaving on an empty stomach. His usual breakfast of Vicodin and nothing doesn’t fix it, his body continuing to pulse with low-level nausea as he drags himself through the rest of the day.

It’s not that unusual. It isn’t like there are days where House feels good, after all. He takes Emetrol.

His breasts (such as they are) start aching on-and-off. House figures, well, he’s in his forties. He’s going through something resembling a menopause, even though his meno has long since paused. Hormonal changes.

Life goes on for another few months.

—

Wednesday

Valerie Ennis hadn’t known she was pregnant.

She’d come in complaining of persistent nausea and frequent urination over the past few weeks. House had ordered a pregnancy test and, well, sure enough.

“I thought—well, I’m forty-seven. I’m going through menopause,” Valerie says, embarrassed. “I figured it wouldn’t matter. The possibility didn’t even cross my mind until you asked if I’d taken a test.”

“You’d think puking up your dinner every day for three weeks would’ve given you a—” is all House gets out before he freezes, the sudden reality of the situation hitting him like a rush of ice water down his back.

Valerie blinks at him. “Um, Doctor House? Is everything okay?”

He hurries through a recommendation that she hit up the front desk to book her abortion ASAP, before getting out of there as fast as he can. He ignores Nurse Previn asking him what he thinks he’s doing leaving in the middle of the afternoon, heads to the parking lot, gets on his bike, and speeds off.

He’s back home with a box of drug store pregnancy tests before he finally stops to breathe for a minute. He can’t do a blood test, not without potentially having to explain himself to someone at the hospital. Pissing on a stick in his ancient bathroom will have to do.

Three minutes later, two thin lines stare up at him, accusingly.

He’s been an idiot—you’d think puking up his dinner every day for two months would’ve given him a clue. Ignoring the symptoms. Nausea. Breast tenderness. Moron. Perimenopausal, to the extent that menopause even occurs after twenty years of testosterone, means he can still get pregnant. With a seriously messed up alcoholic opioid-dependant baby. With Dylan Crandall’s earnest, gullible baby.

Fuck. Fuck.

He walks into his kitchen and drops a couple plates on the floor. Throws the rest of the pregnancy tests at the wall for good measure. He’s debating tossing a few cups, just for some more variety, when he’s interrupted by the phone ringing.

Right. Suddenly leaving the hospital in the middle of the day without a word was practically begging for Wilson’s Concerned About House sensors to activate. Well, Wilson will just have to sit tight for a while.

He takes the phone off the receiver, hangs up, turns his cell off, and goes to find some alcohol.

—

The sound of someone banging on his apartment door wakes him up. After a few seconds of groggy confusion, he realizes who it has to be. This, at least, saves him the trouble of having to call.

It’s dark out. He must have been asleep for a few hours. He closes his eyes, relaxing while he still can. He takes a couple pills, knowing the second he moves it’ll set his leg off. The couch really isn’t made for grown men to fall asleep on, even ones with two functioning legs.

“House!”

He opens his eyes again. Wilson’s staring down at him, looking frazzled. Frazzled is a nice look on him. One of House’s favorites.

Wilson grabs his throat, checking his pulse. He looks about two seconds away from taking out a penlight and pulling back House’s eyelids when he leans forward and smells the alcohol on his breath.

“Are you—are you drunk?” Wilson asks, standing back up, audibly mad now. Visibly mad, also, hands on his hips, incredulous angry-laughter on his face. “You run out of work, ignore my calls, make me let myself in, and you’re—you’re passed out drunk at six PM? On a Wednesday?”

House blinks up at him. “I’m sick,” he says.

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m sick and drunk.”

“Okay,” Wilson says, lifting House’s sock feet up so he can sit down. “You’re sick. That’s not why you’re acting like this. Something’s bothering you.”

He can say it. He has to say it. It’s his only option. He can’t do this himself.

Cuddy knows about him, but she’d never agree to keep a surgery, no matter how minor, off-record. That, and the idea of going back under her knife, even without sedation, makes his skin crawl. Chase would forget himself and blab about it in the cafeteria within a week. Cameron would want to talk to him about it, would never look at him the same way again. Foreman... might be okay, actually, but he’s still having trouble telling his lefts from his rights, and House isn’t looking to get sliced open any time soon.

There’s no one he can trust to do it other than Wilson.

He looks up at the ceiling.

“I’ve got a parasite,” House says, keeping his eyes glued up there. It’s dusty. Ancient fruit flies caught in half-ruined cobwebs.

“A—okay. Surely you could receive treatment for that at the hospital. You know, the one that we both work at.”

“Not that kind of parasite. Well, kind of that kind of parasite. I will be receiving treatment for it.” He finally manages to bring himself to look at Wilson. Pitches his voice up mockingly. “At the hospital. You know, the one that we both work at.”

Wilson’s looking at him suspiciously. Makes sense. He is being incredibly suspicious right now. “Right,” he says, “that’s why you were passed out on your couch instead of taking... metronidazole, or something.”

House looks back up at the ceiling. “Not that kind of parasite. This is the kind that I need somebody to go in and scoop out. Otherwise it’ll just fester and grow and then I’ll be stuck with eighteen years of financial responsibility. Actually, realistically, a lot longer than that. Thirty. Thirty-five, maybe.”

“House.” Oh, somebody’s not joking anymore. “House, you didn’t... God, did you get someone pregnant? A hooker?”

“Oh, so close! I need an abortion.” Spider husks up there. Probably some water damage at this point.

“That’s what I—will you look at me?” House does. Wilson’s eyes are soft and brown and oozing concern and care and, horribly, disgustingly, a tiny bit of hope. Bastard. “Look, House, it’ll be okay. We’ll figure it out.” He puts his hand on House’s good leg. “Who is she?”

“I,” House pats his own chest, “need an abortion.”

Earnest nodding. “You mean she doesn’t want one? Nurse Brenda said you’d just seen a woman around your age in the clinic when you left. Was that her? I... listen, House, maybe we can make this work. It could be good for—“

There’s nothing for it. He grabs the first small item he can reach—the cap of a beer bottle sitting on the coffee table—and throws it at Wilson’s head.

“Ow! What the hell?”

“I,” House says, hitting himself in the chest more emphatically this time, “need you to crank open my hoo-hoo and scrape the fetus out of my uterus before it grows up to experience a life of traumatically inept parenting and drug addiction.”

Wilson stares at him, speechless, for a few seconds. Then he explodes up from his seat. “Oh—oh, God, House!” He’s at the mirthless laughter stage again. Oops.

“Wilson.”

“Ugh, I genuinely believed you. God!” Pinching the bridge of his nose, pacing furiously. He turns to look at House again, pointing at him. “House. Whatever’s wrong with you, you clearly need me to help you with it. But I can’t do that if you won’t tell me what it is.”

“Wilson,” he tries again.

Wilson stares at him expectantly, hands on his hips.

House tries to look as sincere as possible. “I’m telling the truth. I need you to do a D&E. On me. I need you to dilate my cervix and evacuate the fetus that’s in my uterus.”

“Is this some kind of, of code? Are we being watched right now? Is there something preventing you from telling me what’s really wrong with you? Are you trying to drive me actually, clinically insane?”

House rolls his eyes. “You’re an idiot.” This is, he’s rapidly realizing, worse than if Wilson had reacted with disgust or horror. Give him a few days to cool off, he’d be… fine, probably. Eventually. But House just isn’t powerful enough to go up against Repressed Wilson. Repressed Wilson can barely handle watching The L Word. Repressed Wilson wouldn’t know a transsexual if he’d been married to one for twenty years. Trying to convince Repressed Wilson that his best friend’s been packing oyster instead of the expected snail this entire time?

Borderline impossible.

“Very well, O Wise One,” Wilson is saying, “please enlighten me as to which lines I’m supposed to read between in order to figure out—“

“Wilson!” he shouts. Wilson freezes. “Check the cabinet in the bathroom. Glass vial next to the alcohol wipes and the needles. Read the label really, really well.”

Eyes narrowed suspiciously, Wilson scurries off to do as he’s told. House closes his eyes. God, Crandall’s dick hadn’t been worth this, no matter how big it was.

“House?”

House opens his eyes. Wilson’s holding the tiny Delatestryl bottle in one hand. He’s looking pale. The hand holding the bottle is shaking, just a little.

“You could still be making this up. You could have low testosterone,” he says. He doesn’t sound sure of himself anymore.

“Yeah,” says House. “And I don’t get my perfectly normal and acceptable medication that I need for an average, manly reason from my prescribing physician. Makes total sense. I just get it from some guy I met in a bar in 1997 for fun.”

“Okay. God. Okay. Okay, so… what does that mean? Are you—what’s—“

“Well,” House says, deciding to put Wilson out of both of their misery. “I have a vagina. And my vagina needs Doctor Wilson to dilate it and evacuate the fetus.” He makes sure to really enunciate that last bit.

Head in his hands and face bright red, Wilson sits back down on the couch. He takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. You’re pregnant.”

Wow, that is weird to hear out loud. “Yep.”

“And you need—me? You need me to terminate it for you?”

“Jimmy,” he says, looking earnestly into Wilson’s eyes. “My pussy needs you.”

Wilson’s cringes and, somehow, reddens even further, his arms coming up to ward away House’s psychic attack. “Okay! Okay. I understand. Don’t say that ever again. Don’t even—don’t even think it ever again.”

House settles smugly back into the couch. That’ll teach him.

They sit in silence for a minute or two, before Wilson decides he’s not done torturing them both yet.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice cracks a little, soft and hurt.

“Uggghhhh.”

“House, I’m serious. Why didn’t you tell me that you’re—that you, y’know,” he makes a vague hand gesture.

“Used to play for the other team?” House provides, taking pity on Wilson and his sad, syrupy eyes. “I don’t tell anybody. You’re not special.”

“You know you can come to me with anything.”

“Uuuugggggghhhhhhh.”

“Anything, House. I mean it. You can, you can come to me for the meds, the shots. I can do it for you.”

“Think I can handle weekly intramuscular injections on my own. I’m a big boy. I can go to the bathroom by myself and everything. Besides, bar guy will get lonely if I don’t visit him once in a while.”

Wilson sighs. Then he starts, jerking upright in his seat. “Wait. How did this happen? Not the—I mean, how did you get pregnant?” he asks, big doe eyes wide with concern.

“Guy came at me with a turkey baster.”

“House. Seriously. Who was it?” He looks shaken, way more so than basic sex ed usually makes him.

House decides to just rip the band-aid off. “You remember Crandall?”

“...What, the guy with the car?”

“I was thinking more like the guy with the fake Hurricane Katrina kid.”

“He had a car. You said he had a car. You said you would have married him because of his—wait. Him?!”

“Bingo.”

“You slept with him? You told him, and you never told me?” Wilson asks, incredulous.

“I met him before I was even on testosterone. I’ve slept with him before, it’s not a big deal.”

“Don’t defend him!” Wilson gets up off the couch and begins to pace again. “He’s an idiot, he didn’t even have the decency to wear a condom!”

“Whoa there, tiger. I could have asked him to wear one. I’m the one with the medical degree. Crandall’s just a helpless D-list biographer.”

“Well, why didn’t you?!” Wilson shouts. He seems, strangely, angrier even than when he first came in. Or when he thought House was pranking him. Huh.

“What, it’s fine when you think I’m raw-dogging hookers left and right, but you draw the line when I have one bareback sesh with a guy I’ve known for twenty years?” It was a nice bareback sesh, too. Not worth the goopy little freeloader kicking around inside him, but pretty good.

“I don’t—that isn’t—”

“And stop getting up and sitting back down all the time. You’re making me motion sick, and believe me, I’ve had enough of that the past three months.”

Sheepishly, Wilson sits back down. Again. He does it slowly this time, though, so House doesn’t throw another bottle cap at him. “You’re, what, fifteen weeks? Sixteen? I didn’t notice any of the signs.”

“You mean I don’t have a prenatal glow about me?”

Wilson glares at him.

“Neither did I,” House sighs. “And, sixteen. I’ve been taking antiemetics. And I wasn’t about to tell you how sore my B-cups have been.”

Wilson’s eyes flick down to where House’s breasts (such as they are) are visible, as they usually are, through his t-shirt. Figures.

“Hey, eyes up, Doctor Panty Peeler,” he says, snapping his fingers in Wilson’s face. “I’ve got the same parts I did an hour ago. Just because they’re made of more tissue than you initially thought doesn’t mean they’re suddenly on the table.”

“I wasn’t!” Wilson says quickly, eyes snapping back up.

“You were.” He was.

“It was automatic! You brought it up.”

House raises his eyebrows. Wilson scoffs and rolls his eyes.

They sit silently for a minute, decompressing, until Wilson says, “you know, B-cups is being kind of generous.”

House laughs, caught off guard. That bitch. “Yeah, you would know. Pretty sure yours are bigger than mine.”

“Hey.”

“You need to lay off the macadamia pancakes, Jimmy. By which I mean, you need to feed all of them to me.” He gets distracted thinking about Wilson’s pancakes for a second. God, he could go for some of those right now.

“Of course, my liege.” Wilson rubs the back of his neck tiredly, stretching out a bit. Right. He’s had a full workday, unlike House. Of course, he’s not pregnant, so House still wins.

“So,” House says. “I’m thinking Friday.”

“...Friday what?”

“Friday D&E. Prep on Thursday, procedure on Friday. Easy.”

“You... want it that quick? You don’t want to think about it first? You only found out this afternoon, right?”

This is it. This is what House wanted to avoid, specifically. This conversation. It’s why he’s not telling Crandall about their little miracle of life.

“I’ve had this thing for four months. I want it out ASAP. I want it out yesterday. I do not need to think it over, I do not need you to hold my hand while I cry about how this is my last chance to reproduce before my womb turns barren. I need you to get rid of it. You know, like a doctor.”

“Fine, fine.” Wilson raises his hands placatingly. “I get it. You couldn’t have it anyway, with the Vicodin and... everything.” He gestures at the empty bottles on the coffee table. “You’re not gonna tell him, are you? What’s-his-name, with the car.”

“God, no. He’d just get sad about how we can’t keep it, even though that would be a terrible idea even if it wasn’t deep-fried by now. Crandall’s already got a fake teenage daughter on his hands, he doesn’t need a real infant one on top of that.” House thinks for a second. “What is it with you and the car?”

“What? Nothing,” Wilson says, too quickly. Suspiciously.

“You keep going on about it. I mentioned it one time, months ago, it’s not like—”

“Look, it’s nothing. I’ll book you into the first clinic opening on Thursday for dilation, okay?”

“No, not okay.”

“Wh—you said you wanted to terminate on Friday!” He’s completely baffled. Typical. It’s like he hasn’t been listening to a word House has said.

House throws another bottle cap at him.

“Stop it! What’s wrong now?”

“Did you think I told you because I don’t know how to book an abortion on my own? That I dragged all this out because I needed, what, emotional support? For you to rub my back and tell me I’ll be okay? Think!”

“Fine! What do you want from me, then, House? You’re scared to be vulnerable, scared of any kind of surgery no matter how minor. I understand that. I can do the procedure for you if you don’t want anyone else, but how, exactly, am I meant to do it without bringing you into the clinic?”

“You idiot. I can’t have any of this on record, anywhere. No appointments, no writing in my chart, no medication under my name. You seriously think I’m going to let those vultures on the nursing staff know about any of this? It has to be secret. We’ll do it after hours, sneak down to the clinic at night.” Wilson puts his hands on his knees, leaning forward to stand. “If you get up again, I swear I’ll puke on you.” He leans back. Good.

“House, I can’t do that. I could lose my license, I—what if something goes wrong, if you hemorrhage, or, or you get an infection later on, and you need to be admitted? What am I going to do?” He’s panicking, hands shaking, breaths coming too fast. “What if something happens and I can’t help you?”

“Wilson!” House claps his hands in front of Wilson’s face, making him jump. “If you make me carry to term, my life is over. If you do the procedure and it’s recorded, anywhere, my life is over. If, if there is a complication, we’ll deal with it when it comes up. Besides,” he says in a lighter tone, “you’re not gonna lose your license. You’re a professional doing a standard minor surgery. You just... happen to be doing it after hours. Cuddy’ll protect you.”

“God...” Wilson shakes his head, pinches the bridge of his nose. Closes his eyes for a few moments. “Okay. Alright. Secret. What if we get caught? I mean, won’t people notice the both of us staying late? You don’t have a case right now, normally you’d be out of there on the dot. If you even bothered to stay that long.”

House shrugs. “You stay late all the time. All that paperwork you insist on doing. I’ll hide in your office, we’ll go when there’ll be no one in the lobby or the clinic. One AM would be good.”

“Great,” Wilson groans. “I don’t need sleep. I’m sure it’ll be fine. What about the pre-op dilation? I’m not doing it same-day, and I’m definitely not doing it without. Not at your age, there are too many risks.”

“Thanks, mom. We’ll do it here, Thursday evening.”

“What, like—here here? In your apartment?”

“Yeah. It’s private. You’re not cutting into me, it’s not like we need a sterile OR. My bedroom’s fine.” Honestly, if there’s anywhere that’ll give House an infection, it’s the place occupied by morons with the flu all day.

“You want to do it in your bedroom?”

“Do you see anywhere else in here I can spread out? You want to try doing it on the floor? It’d be pretty hard on your knees. I guess you could lay on your stomach, with your feet kicked up in the air like a teenage girl phoning a cute boy to—”

“Fine. Your bedroom, tomorrow evening. I’ll... bring the stuff.”

“You’re making this sound a lot sexier than it’s going to be.” If House is just a little relieved that Wilson’s taken on the somewhat terrifying responsibility of potentially getting caught smuggling various cervix-ripening accoutrements out of the hospital, Wilson doesn’t need to know that.

“I don’t know,” Wilson says. “We’re gonna go further than I have on some dates.”

“Some dates? You’re doing cervical penetration on most of your dates?”

“Well, just because most guys can’t get that far in...”

“Don’t make me get another bottle cap.”

Wilson chuckles. “I’ll call in sick for you tomorrow, it’ll explain why you left so suddenly today. Say you have a stomach bug, or something.”

“Speaking of.” House points at the variety of menus stuck to his fridge. “Go order Chinese.”

“Ask nicely.”

“I’m a pregnant cripple. I need lo mein, stat.”

Wilson picks up the phone.

—

Thursday

True to his word, Wilson calls in sick for House the next morning.

This, however, leaves House to slowly lose his mind on his couch, not-watching Real Housewives, feeling like he’s about to vibrate out of his skin for several hours until six rolls around and Wilson finally shows up.

“Took you long enough,” House snipes.

“Well, I did still have to do my job. Besides,” Wilson announces, hefting a large black bag up onto the kitchen counter, “I come bearing gifts. Let’s see, we have... your dilator rods.” He starts taking things out one by one. “Lidocaine. Needles. Betadine. Speculum. Surgilube. Clamp. Forceps. Swabs. Gloves. Pads. Aaaand—Misoprostol.” He holds the bottle up, proudly. “Charted it under Ms. Ennis, the woman you saw yesterday. If anybody asks, I’ll just say there was a mix-up when you got sick.”

House gives him a half-sarcastic little golf clap. He has done a good job. Got everything they need. “Dilapan,” he comments, examining the dilator rods. “The good stuff.”

“Yeah,” Wilson laughs. “I’m spoiling you. Only the best.”

“Oh, Doctor Wilson...” House says, high and breathy, batting his eyelashes. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Legally, I definitely should not have. I also brought dinner.” He lifts another, smaller bag up off the floor and places it next to his pile of stolen goods. “You want to eat first, or...?”

“After. Let’s get this over with.” His focus fully on Wilson now, instead of the small mountain of plastic-wrapped medical supplies, House notices something odd. Something that nags at a corner of his brain. “Why are you wearing your green tie?”

“What?”

“Your green tie. That’s your seduction tie. Your affair tie, when you’re married.”

“It isn’t—I just, I grabbed the first tie I saw. I wasn’t thinking about color combinations or anything, I was preoccupied thinking about you.” Wilson clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “I mean, about this evening. And... everything,” he adds. “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s a tie.”

Huh. This line of discussion is making Wilson nervous. Interesting. “Your subconscious thought your Sexy Tie was the right choice for getting up close and personal with my coochie?”

“Your—” Wilson rubs a hand over his scrunched face. “House. It’s just a tie. It’s got nothing to do with you, or with your... situation,” he says, waving his hand in the vague direction of House’s lower half.

“My coochie situation.”

“Ugh. When you were planning how to tell me, did you specifically think of all of the worst possible genital terms you could say? Were your skills in psychological warfare getting rusty?”

“Off the dome, baby. No planning required.”

Wilson groans, massaging his temples. “Great. Good to know you can come up with these indefinitely. You’re really keeping me on my toes.” He shakes his head. “I’ll go set up the bedroom. You just... sit tight.”

“Thought of a good one earlier!” House calls after him as he goes. “Oyster. Like in—”

“I know,” Wilson calls back, ducking into the bathroom to grab what seems like every towel House owns. He scurries off to the bedroom and closes the door.

Well. That leaves House to twiddle his thumbs for the next fifteen-odd minutes. He takes two pills, does his routine pre-dilation pee and then, feeling weird and small and kind of jittery, wets a cloth and scrubs between his legs. He wants to make sure there’s no lint, or whatever. Carefully rubs one wet thumb under the hood of his clit, even though Wilson’s not going to be touching him there. Probably. Not unless he’s got some really weird ideas about how dilation works.

He rubs his thumb over the head again. Hooks the shaft between his knuckles and squeezes a little, making his legs twitch. It’s all feeling—raw, achy. Increased blood flow to the pelvic region. He feels like an overripe fruit, swollen and sensitive.

A knock at the door startles him. “House? It’s ready. We’re good to go.” There’s a thread of anxiety in Wilson’s voice that he isn’t quite managing to hide.

“Gimme a second.” House grabs the cloth again, scrubs one more time. Fine. Whatever. It’ll do. He washes his hands, gets back into his pants.

Wilson’s waiting on the other side of the door. “You’re ready? You peed?”

“No, I was masturbating in there. Forgot all about peeing, because I haven’t been a doctor for longer than you have and I don’t know how a routine cervical dilation goes.”

Wilson motions House towards the bedroom with an exasperated hand. “Come on. You said you wanted to get this over with.”

House’s skin feels like it’s buzzing. He feels... out of it, distant and muffled, like he’s in the back seat instead of the front.

The bed’s been arranged as well as Wilson was able. He’s got everything laid out on a stolen surgical tray, a bounty of autoclave pouches and little glass bottles. House’s pillows have been moved near the bottom of the bed, the whole thing covered by towels. Wilson’s moved a chair to the foot of the bed, and precariously balanced a desk lamp on a stack of books next to it.

“You know,” House says, “I’m barely into the second trimester. Could probably manage dilation with just the misoprostol.”

“House, we both know your age puts you at higher risk for complications.” Stern, no-nonsense. Wilson’s in full Responsible Doctor Mode, now. “I’m not going to let you talk me into playing fast and loose with your body. You need to be examined thoroughly before we do anything else, and I want you as—as dilated as you can get by tomorrow evening. I’m not risking perforation or tearing. Now,” he snaps his fingers and points at the bed, “take your clothes off and lay down. Come on, dinner’s getting cold.”

Overwhelmed with the desire to just be done with this, House complies. Sort of. “You need my shirt off, too? Man, I must be doing pelvic exams wrong.” He wriggles out of his pajama pants as passive-aggressively as he can. He’s not sure Wilson can tell, given that he’s turned to face the wall, but it makes House feel better.

“Uh—no, not for this, but. Well.” Wilson starts to squirm a little. “I was thinking... when’s the last time you had a breast exam?”

House stops, one hand frozen, mid-steeling itself at the waistband of his boxers, the other moving automatically to curl over his right thigh. “I can feel myself up just fine,” he sneers. “I don’t need you giving me the Mrs. Wilson treatment. Or the Ms. Palmieri treatment.”

Grace Palmieri, or the miracle woman, as House had taken to calling her, is still a sore spot. Wilson’s done a lot of stupid things in the fifteen years House has known him, but sleeping with one of his terminal patients really takes the cake. So far, at least. He’s got plenty of time left to do something worse.

Like sleeping with one of his non-terminal patients.

“I’m an oncologist,” Wilson says, still facing the wall, apparently choosing to ignore House’s pointed jab. “I might feel something you couldn’t. Have you ever had a mammogram? Anything? You’re in your forties, House, you should be getting them regularly.”

“One more word and I’m downing that misoprostol and locking myself in the bathroom for the next three days.”

“Fine,” Wilson sighs. “I’ll drop it. For now. But this conversation is not over.” Yes, it is, if House has anything to say about it.

House shoves his boxers down and hurls himself onto the bed. He lands left side first and bounces a little on impact. “Get in here before I change my mind.”

Wilson turns to face him. Probably. House isn’t looking, he’s on his back, sideways, staring at the ceiling. He’s been doing that a lot lately.

Silence.

“By here, I mean my—”

“Uh,” Wilson interrupts. “Yeah.” Footsteps crossing the short distance. “You know, I think on some level I still sort of thought you were pranking me,” he says, faintly.

“I wouldn’t go this far.”

“You would.” He would.

A hand lands on House’s knee, making him jolt and look down. Wilson is standing, half bent over him, flushed up to his ears, eyes wide and carefully focused on House’s face. “I, um. I need you propped up. On the pillows. Should I—Look, why don’t I just—” He makes to grab House by the hips and gets his hands slapped for his trouble. “I just need to get you in position!” he says, raising said hands apologetically. “Will you let me move you?”

House nods, reluctantly. He’s not sure what will happen if he tries to speak right now. Or move.

“Okay,” Wilson murmurs. House watches as Wilson takes his hips in both hands and gently slides them over, leaning a knee onto the bed for leverage in order to move him up onto one of the pillows.

Given that House’s legs are still closed, and that he doesn’t shave, Wilson probably can’t see much. That’s going to change in about four seconds, give or take. He swallows. Closes his eyes.

“Okay,” Wilson says again, even quieter now. “I’m gonna—move your legs now.” Silence stretches for a moment. “House?”

It takes a second for him to realize that Wilson is waiting for him to respond. He swallows two more times. “Yeah?” he finally manages to croak out.

Wilson pats his left thigh. “You’re okay?”

“Yeah.” He can’t open his eyes. He can’t watch Wilson’s reaction.

Two hands close gently around his bad thigh, carefully supporting it as Wilson moves it to the side, propping it up on the second pillow.

He hears Wilson take a deep breath, exhaling shakily. He pushes House’s other thigh up, until his left foot is flat on the bed and his knee is bent, exposing him fully. The open air makes him clench, reflexively, which is probably responsible for the tiny gasp he hears from Wilson’s direction.

There’s the sound of Wilson’s shoes creaking as he crouches, then of fabric rustling. A few heavy breaths, muffled but still audible, as if Wilson’s pressed his face into the bed.

A few more seconds pass, and then Wilson clears his throat, once, twice. “Right,” he says, strained. “Here we go.” Shuffling. Gloves snapping on. An exhale close enough, now, that House feels it against his skin. The back of Wilson’s gloved hand touching against his left thigh, and then—

“Your—it’s. Different. Than a woman’s,” Wilson stammers out, suddenly. The absurdity finally succeeds in dragging House back into his body. He opens his eyes and looks down.

“Shut up,” House says. Wilson starts, looking up at him. He’s in the chair, practically bent double, leaning forward to get at House. He looks... flustered, definitely. He’s no less flushed than he was five minutes ago, and his hair has the silly, fluffy look it only gets when he’s been running his hands through it.

“Uh,” he says, mouth-breathing dumbly at House for a second. “That’s. No, I mean—not in a bad way! Just, you know, different. It’s, it’s bigger, it’s—”

“Stop. Talking.”

“Yep.” Wilson busies himself uncapping the Surgilube, coating the first two fingers on his left hand.

“You’re a thirty-eight year old doctor who’s been married three times,” House says after a moment. “You’d think the word clitoris wouldn’t scare you anymore.”

Wilson rolls his eyes. “If I were scared, would I be doing this?” he asks, then puts his right hand over House’s abdomen. His left finally makes contact, breaches, his index and middle fingers sheathing themselves inside House.

House has the sudden realization, as Wilson presses into him, that he’s wet. He’s really, really wet. He’s not sure what did it—if it was the manhandling, or when Wilson spread his thighs open, or what was, in hindsight, absolutely Wilson getting so horny he had to smother himself about it.

With his fingers already slicked up, Wilson probably can’t feel it. He—may be able to see. Can definitely see how red and swollen House’s clit is. Possibly, being able to see contributed to the aforementioned smothering.

Wilson just sits there for a moment, frozen, staring at where his fingers are buried in House, looking like he can’t quite believe what he’s doing.

A certain hypothesis starts forming in back of House’s mind. He needs more data. He also needs all that extra blood pumping through his pelvic zone to stop making him tighten and relax, on and off, over and over, around Wilson’s thick fingers.

“Right, uh.” Wilson wets his lips, clears his throat. “Right.” He starts palpating, his right hand pressing in just above House’s mound, feeling out the shape of the fundus. “Feels normal. Well, feels pregnant, but pregnantly normal. Normally pregnant.”

“Is that how you talk to patients? Are you telling people they feel pregnantly normal on the reg?”

“I am whenever I’m doing the exam in their bedroom.”

“So, daily basis?”

Wilson smacks House’s good thigh with his non-sloppy hand. “Okay,” he says, removing his fingers. “Time to open you up.”

“Thank God,” House exhales. “You know, Princeton’s female population has really oversold your manual abilities. I could get better from most shower heads.”

“No, you couldn’t.”

“Shows what you know. I’ve met some remarkably skilled shower heads.”

“Say whatever you want, you still admitted that people think I’m good in bed,” Wilson says, smug. He tosses his gloves and pulls on a new pair, picks up the speculum.

The atmosphere shifts, the presence of an actual medical instrument lending the situation an element of clinical detachment. This is a procedure now, instead of House, half-naked on his bed, getting awkwardly fingered by his handsome best friend who just happened to be wearing gloves for it.

Wilson warms the arms of the speculum between his gloved hands, ever the responsible medical professional. Now that he’s not on the verge of blowing his load just because the nearest source of pussy needs his help, that is. “Had to guess about the size. I hope it’s not too big, because if it is, I... can’t do anything about it,” he says, sheepish.

“Whatever,” House says. “Crack me open already.”

Wilson does. The speculum goes in fine; at this point House is so wet and open that Wilson could probably get his whole hand in if he felt like it.

Speculum opened and fixed in place. Desk lamp angled. “Well, you definitely look pregnant in here. Very, um... soft,” Wilson says, technically correct but still managing to sound like a complete freak.

“Say that again without drooling on yourself this time.”

“Shut up,” Wilson replies, busily disinfecting House’s cervix. “Needle incoming.” House hisses, trying not to flinch away as Wilson injects, clamps, and injects more, steadily moving through the paracervical block. Well, House isn’t horny anymore, at least. “Okay, here we go.”

House is cramping something awful by the time Wilson’s done fiddling all three dilators into him, his organs protesting the treatment.

“Aaand—we’re done.” He eases the various instruments out, making House grunt in pain. “You’re okay?”

“Cramping. Normal. You just spent fifteen minutes poking and stabbing in a place people generally aren’t meant to touch.”

Wilson pulls his gloves off, makes a soothing noise, and then pets his hand over House’s abdomen, just above his mound. House smacks him away. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Oh, God—sorry, sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

“I’ll say. Just because you’ve been fumbling around in my pussy doesn’t make me your wife. Keep your hands to yourself.”

“I—yeah. Just. Forget I did that. Autopilot.” There’s a flash of—something, in Wilson’s face, before he turns to start cleaning the tray up. “You think I can sneak any of these back into the hospital?”

“Don’t care either way. What’d you bring for dinner?”

“Uh... Greek. You should probably rest a bit, before—”

“Nope.” House is already slipping off the bed and wriggling back into the rest of his clothes. “Cervical dilation makes daddy hungry.”

He scampers off to go raid the takeout bag. Souvlaki, moussaka, saganaki, and—

“Wilson,” he calls.

Wilson appears, apparently finished cleaning up. “Yeah?”

“Did you bring wine to my dilation?”

“Technically, I brought it to dinner.”

“I have beer. I have scotch, even,” House says. “What is it about dilation dinnertime that requires wine?”

“Is I thought it would pair nicely with the food an acceptable answer, or is that not exciting enough for you? Do you want me to make a mystery out of it? Drop subtle clues every couple of weeks?”

He’s defensive. The pieces are rapidly falling into place, arranging themselves into a picture that House... is going to put off looking directly at for as long as he possibly can.

“You do realize that drinking’s going to make this,” House gestures resentfully to his general uterine zone, “worse?”

“Oh. Right. I wasn’t thinking,” Wilson says, embarrassed. “It just seemed like the right thing to do.” Oh, this is bad. House needs to move them away from this topic immediately.

“Strictly sober this evening,” he says, retrieving the latest Vicodin bottle from his pocket and swallowing one.

“Right,” says Wilson. “Strictly sober.”

The rest of the evening passes uneventfully with the two of them on the couch. Wilson, thankfully, doesn’t try to do anything else that might force House to confront The Issue head-on. Like taking House’s hand, or trying to hand feed him saganaki, or whatever it is Wilson does on dates.

Wilson starts yawning around eleven, doe eyes drooping, half-lidded. He stands, stretches his limbs out, joints cracking. “If I’m going to be even half awake with you tomorrow night, I’m going to need to get to bed,” he says, then looks cautiously over at House. “Do you... should I stay over tonight? Just, just in case anything goes wrong?”

Damn it.

House sighs. They were so close to getting out of Thursday unscathed. “Having a geriatric pregnancy doesn’t actually mean I’m going to combust at the drop of a hat, you know.”

“I know, I know, I’m just—look, it’s still a big deal! Even for someone healthy. And you’re... not healthy,” he finishes, lamely.

“Really? I thought everyone’s legs were like this.”

“House...”

“Go home. You’re really not going to be awake tomorrow night if you try sleeping on my couch again. If I start spontaneously bleeding to death in the middle of the night, I’ll call you so you can come snatch my snatch from the jaws of death.”

Wilson shakes his head, expression pained. “...Yeah, fine. I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning.”

He leaves. Confrontation successfully avoided. Now all House has to do is continue to avoid it for the next two-to-three weeks. By then Wilson will have calmed back down, and then everything can return to normal.

—

Friday

Friday is long. Wilson shows up at House’s apartment at nine in the morning and forces him out of bed, into clothes, and subsequently into Wilson’s passenger seat by 9:15, no matter how many times House protests that pregnant cripples can’t be expected to show up at work until at least noon.

He does pacify House with a latte, though—half-sweet, how House likes it—so he doesn’t gnaw any of Wilson’s limbs off on the ride over.

After House languishes in his office for three mind-numbing hours, Wilson finally returns to rescue him for lunch, which they eat in Wilson’s office in order to avoid potential prying eyes. Or ears.

“Still feeling okay?” Wilson asks after swallowing a mouthful of pilaf. He’s brought an extra fork, which House initially turned up his nose at, distrustful of any food with that many nuts and vegetables in it, but is now using to sneak bites whenever Wilson pretends to be distracted.

“Uh-huh,” House says, “and I was okay the other seventeen times you asked, too. What would you even do if I said no?”

“Well, check your blood pressure, to start. And then probably ask what it was that didn’t feel okay so I could take a look.”

“You’d take a look at my honeypot in your office?” (Wilson mouths honeypot to himself in horror.) “You do a lot of vaginal inspections in here?”

“No, I don’t,” Wilson snaps. “I’m helping you, you know. Why do you have to keep—wait. Hold on.” He looks faintly terrified. “House, you’ve been peeing next to me at the urinals every day for—for years! The entire time I’ve been working here. How?”

House raises his eyebrows. “...Like most mammals, I also excrete urine from my kidneys, which then travels into my bladder through my ureters, and—”

“How have you been peeing, standing up, at the urinals? How did I not notice... anything?”

“I’ve got a thing for it. And you’re too cowardly to look. That’s why I track your urination schedule, pee when you pee.”

“You—what kind of thing? Wait, I have a urination schedule?”

“One: None of your business. Two: Yes. I’m not explaining it to you; the scientist doesn’t interfere with the subject of observation.” Wilson’s piss habits occasionally vary when outside factors are introduced, but usually he sticks to the formula.

Wilson holds up a hand. “That’s... fine. If you told me I’d probably just end up self-conscious about it for the rest of my life.”

—

On one hand, House is thankful he doesn’t have a case—if he did, there’s no way he’d be able to disappear during the night. On the other hand, it means that the rest of the afternoon passes agonizingly slowly. He feels like a hapless Bostonian in 1919, slogging through molasses.

Finally, finally, finally, the end of the workday arrives and he can slink off to Wilson’s office again. They still have to wait another seven and a half hours, but at least they’re in the home stretch now.

Around 7:30, Wilson leaves to find them some dinner, returning fifteen minutes later with a bounty of burgers and fries. House eats his own fries and half of Wilson’s. Wilson hasn’t protested any of his thievery all day—in fact, he’s enabled it. Encouraged it, even. It’s another symptom; Wilson always pays for House’s food, but he doesn’t usually enjoy it so much. This way, it feels less like House is an irritating yet slightly endearing freeloader and more like Wilson is trying to provide for him. To take care of him. He’s not even bothering to fake exasperation.

It’s concerning.

“Your misoprostol, sire,” Wilson says at about ten o’clock, producing the bottle with a flourish. “I’ll... give you some privacy.”

He locks the door, leaving House in the safety of his office.

It’s strange, getting half-naked in Wilson’s office. The door is locked, the blinds are drawn, but House still feels exposed. He lies down awkwardly on Wilson’s couch, shuffling onto his left side and pressing his hand between his legs, easing the pills in one by one. When he’s finished he rocks, just a little, against his hand.

The anxious feeling has shifted into a kind of shivery arousal, the knowledge that he’s only in his shirt in Wilson’s office, on Wilson’s couch, that Wilson knows this, could unlock the door and come in if he chose to.

House lets the idea burn pleasantly for a few more moments before he buries it again, awkwardly shimmying back into his underwear and pants without getting off the couch.

“House?” Wilson calls through the door. “Everything okay? You finished?”

“I’m bleeding to death,” House calls back. He settles into a more comfortable lounging position, waiting for the misoprostol to dissolve. “I’m also fully naked.”

Wilson unlocks the door and enters. “Misoprostol go in okay?” he asks, because he just doesn’t know when to quit.

“Go in where, Doctor Wilson?” House asks innocently.

“What?”

“Where does the misoprostol go in?”

On the verge of tilting his head in that dog-like way of his, Labrador eyes blinking in confusion. “It... goes in the vagina.”

House nods encouragingly at him. “Whose vagina?”

“I—yours,” Wilson says, embarrassed, the way he gets every time House reminds him of their key anatomical differences.

“My...?” he trails off expectantly.

Wilson puts his hands on his hips. “House.”

“Come on, you’ve seen it already. You put your fingers in it. What’s the issue? Say it. My vagina. Well, ‘your vagina,’ if it’s you saying it. Well, not your vagina. You don’t get one.”

“House, did you take the misoprostol or not?” Wilson asks wearily, dragging a hand down his reddening face.

“Say it.”

“It’s late, I’m exhausted—”

“Say it.”

“Fine!” Throwing his hands in the air, Wilson takes a few steps towards House, half-shouting, “your vagina! You have a vagina. Do you need me to insert the misoprostol into your vagina? Is that what this is about? You, what, can’t reach and you’re trying to annoy me into doing it for you?”

“Nope,” says House. “Tucked away safe and sound in here.” He pats his crotch.

“Good. Great,” Wilson says, sitting down heavily at his desk.

“Think I’ll nap for a couple hours.”

“You do that.”

House does not nap. He does, however, close his eyes and listen to his MP3 player for the remaining three hours, ignoring Wilson completely.

—

They make their way down to the clinic. Wilson hustles House along nervously, as if he’s expecting Cuddy to pop out from behind each corner they pass.

The clinic is dark and unoccupied, oddly unnerving in its uncharacteristic stillness. It’s easier to breathe once they get into an exam room and can finally begin setting up.

All required instruments assembled, House undresses and gets on the table.

Wilson, gloved and masked, gets into position between House’s spread legs, bracketed on either side by his sock feet. “Okay,” he exhales. “Time to get those dilators out.” His lubed fingers slide in once more, right hand moving to give House’s uterus another feel. As if it might have somehow changed significantly over the course of one day.

Despite the inherent discomfort of being in the stirrups and the stress the position puts on House’s leg, it’s still less weird than the previous day’s Bimanual Bedroom Maneuver. The exam room is almost comforting in its familiar cool sterility; it feels worlds away from Thursday’s heavy, sexually tense atmosphere.

Still, it’s strange feeling Wilson’s fingers carefully work the rods out of him—even on Thursday, he hadn’t actually moved them in there.

“Everything looks good in here,” Wilson says, once he’s got the rods out and the speculum in.

“I bet you say that to all the cervices you dilate,” says House, faux-bashful.

“Oh, I’ve never met one as ripe as yours.”

There’s a long stretch of mortified silence as the two of them consider this statement.

“Can I go back in time and stop myself from saying that?” Wilson asks eventually.

“I wish I could go back in time and stop myself from bailing you out of jail.”

Wilson, wisely, chooses not to respond.

The procedure takes on something of a hazy, dreamlike quality as Wilson moves methodically through it, repeating Thursday’s steps until he finally gets the cannula in.

Amniotomy, aspiration, evacuation. Suction, forceps, suction, forceps. Cold ultrasound gel, Wilson checking to make sure he got it all. Dull cramping even through the Vicodin House took earlier.

“And... we’re done,” Wilson says suddenly, his voice seeming loud in the quiet of the exam room.

House inhales, exhales. For something that could do so much damage, it’s almost surreal how simple it is to get rid of. The wonders of modern medicine. And New Jersey’s abortion laws.

“House? You’re still feeling fine?”

“No. I started dying a minute in and didn’t say anything because I wanted you to feel bad when you figured it out.”

Wilson sighs and hands House his clothes. “Yeah, well, I’m still taking your blood pressure before we leave.” House rolls his eyes but doesn’t protest. Best to pacify Wilson now so he doesn’t try to force House to stay for the full recovery period. He struggles back into his shirt and underwear as Wilson straps his arm in.

“Alright,” Wilson says a minute later. “You’re good. Let’s get you out of here.” He moves to help House down off the clinic table.

House smacks Wilson’s helpful hands away, stumbling determinedly off the clinic table under his own power. His leg protests, agitated from the extended lithotomy position, and he sways for a moment, barely managing to catch himself on the table edge. Successfully anchored, he slowly gets back into his jeans and sneakers, Wilson hovering anxiously the entire time.

Wilson looks like he wants to ask him a serious question. Probably something like Are you going to be okay? Or Will you ever tell Crandall? Or, God forbid, Would you have kept it if you could?

“Come on,” says House, heading any heart-to-hearts off at the pass. “I have a date with a bottle of scotch and a season of Columbo.”

“Can’t stand up Peter Falk,” Wilson agrees, herding House out of the clinic.

They make it to Wilson’s car without incident. The nervous energy that’s been keeping House going for hours finally gives way and he practically collapses into the passenger seat, leg aching.

“Hey,” he says a few minutes later, breaking the exhausted quiet, “I’m craving pancakes. Let’s swing by a 24-hour diner, or—”

“Let me take you to my hotel room,” Wilson interrupts. Uh oh.

“Why, Doctor Wilson, you know I’m not that kind of girl,” House deflects in his best southern belle voice. It’s a pretty good one, if he’s any judge.

Wilson gives him a sharp glance. “Yes, you are.” He blanches. “Wait, No, I—I mean, that kind, not a girl. I wouldn’t—I’m not—you can trust me.” Babbling, frantic.

It’s beginning to seem like a distinct possibility that Wilson will whip himself into such an anxious frenzy that he’ll stroke out and kill them both. “Are you going to crash the car?”

“Uh. No, I think I’m good.” He shakes his head. “Anyway. My hotel room is cleaner than your place. Plus, if you get any blood on the sheets there, someone’s being paid to actually clean them instead of just leaving them bloody for the next fifteen years.”

It’s a good point. He really would prefer not to get blood on his stuff.

“And,” Wilson says, voice going stern, no-nonsense, “I want to monitor you to make sure everything’s okay. If I take you back to your apartment, you’re going to barricade yourself in there for three days.”

Wilson’s arguments might sound valid, and Wilson himself might even believe he’s sincere in his motives, but Wilson is also the regional champion of rationalization and denial. House is fairly sure that if he lets Wilson talk him into this, it’s going to end badly. Wilson’s not in his right mind, he can’t be trusted to make sound decisions.

House makes a dubious noise. “Scotch and Falk trump housekeeping and mother henning.”

“I’ll let you order as many room service pancakes as you want tomorrow.”

“Deal,” says House, forever weak in the face of free food, breakfast food, and especially free breakfast food.

Wilson smiles, pleased with himself.

It’s two-thirty in the morning by the time they make it into Wilson’s hotel room, and for all his talk of Peter Falk and pancakes, House is, frankly, dead on his feet. He calls dibs on the bathroom first and Wilson doesn’t fight him on it, presumably because of the whole abortion thing.

The bathroom is as sad as the rest of the room—which is to say that it’s a perfectly normal hotel bathroom, but the fact that Wilson is living here instead of finding an apartment already lends the atmosphere a note of despair. Wilson is incapable of living in a place that’s actually his. His wives, House, his patient—it has to be someone else’s space.

House pees, washes his hands, and then ignores the spare toothbrush in favor of Wilson’s. It feels necessary, somehow.

Wilson’s already in his stupid Dickensian pajama set by the time House is finished. “You look like you should be carrying a candle on a plate,” House comments.

“I’ll get my old-timey sleeping cap out, just for you.” Wilson hands him a spare t-shirt and lounge pants, then heads into the bathroom to do his forty-five minute bedtime ritual.

He gets into bed. They’ve shared beds before, him and Wilson. Zipping sleeping bags together during freezing nights on camping trips before the infarction. It’s not weird unless one of them makes it weird.

Of course, evidence of the past few days suggests that Wilson might make it very weird.

Finally finished primping and cleansing and whatever else, Wilson slips in beside him. “Night, House,” he says.

“Night, Wilson.”

True to form, however, House’s insomnia is in full-force tonight. His leg is still aching from being held immobile in the air, and this time it’s accompanied by the dull cramping in his pelvis. He tosses and turns for what feels like ages but realistically is probably about five minutes, before Wilson finally whispers, “House?”

House grunts in response.

“Is it the cramping, or...?”

“My leg doesn’t like dorsal lithotomy.”

“Oh,” Wilson murmurs. There’s a few moments of thoughtful silence, and then, “Do you want me to... you know, massage it for you?”

“Fuck off,” House says, trying to pull his pillow over his head.

Wilson grabs the pillow. “House, come on, it’s keeping you awake. You’re keeping me awake thrashing around! Just, just let me help you relax. Even if you manage to fall asleep like this, you’ll just feel worse tomorrow morning.”

God damn it. House flicks the bedside lamp on, sitting up and staring at Wilson. “We both know that’s not why you’re asking.”

“What are you—of course that’s why I’m asking! I want to go to sleep. I want you to go to sleep, too. What other possible reason could I have?”

House sighs, turns away from him, stares at the wall. He’d tried so hard to avoid this conversation. “What other possible reason could you have to want to rub your hands all over my thigh?” he asks, tiredly.

Wilson laughs nervously. “Come on, you can’t be serious. You think I’m, what, trying to trick you into bed? I know you like to joke about it, but you know I’m not actually gay.” He’s usually a very good liar, but not when he’s caught off guard. When he’s not expecting to need to lie, he’s far easier to read.

“I know you like needy. And I’ve been pretty needy this week.”

“House, this is ridiculous, I’m not—”

“Do you usually get so horny during pelvic exams that you give yourself a panic attack?”

Wilson freezes. Deer in the headlights, sleepy eyes panicked. “What?”

“Yesterday. In my bedroom. You got so worked up from seeing my cooter you had to suffocate yourself about it.”

“You had your eyes closed, how could you possibly—”

“You tried to talk me into letting you fondle my tits.”

“I’m an oncologist, I wanted to give you a breast exam!” There’s a desperate edge to Wilson’s voice at this point, his eyes wide and fearful.

“You didn’t need to do another bimanual exam today,” House says. Wilson puts his head in his hands, cringing.

“You did one yesterday,” House continues, hammering the final nail in. “There was no physical way for me to have developed enough in twenty-four hours that you’d need to do another. We both know you could have removed the dilator rods with forceps when you put the speculum in.”

He rubs his hand up and down his thigh, trying to soothe where the ache’s gotten worse over the past few minutes.

“You wanted to touch me again.”

“Oh, God,” Wilson says, hands still over his face. “I’m sorry. House, I’m so, so sorry. I never should have—you trusted me, and I, I... Jesus, I took advantage of—”

“Calm down,” House scoffs. “You didn’t traumatize me. It’s not like you stuck your dick in.” Wilson groans miserably. “Point is, this is why you’re not allowed to feel me up.”

“Right. Of course. I shouldn’t have asked, I... should I leave? I should leave, I’m making you uncomfortable.” He’s graduated from squirming in despair to frantic and anxious in record time.

“Relax. I’m not uncomfortable. You’re not some freak looking to molest me in my sleep. You’re confused; give it a couple weeks and this’ll all blow over. Back to normal.”

Wilson stops writhing in self-loathing and stares at him, gaze turning sharp and suspicious. “Hold on. What do you mean, I’m confused?”

Trust Wilson to not recognize his own behavioral patterns. “This,” House gestures to himself, “whole thing. You’re fresh off your divorce, you’re rebounding twice over. I needed your help. I needed you.”

The light dawns in Wilson’s eyes. For some reason, the light looks smug. “You’re right. You’re not uncomfortable. You,” he says, pointing at House, “don’t believe I really want you. You think I’m, I’m—latching onto you because you’re vulnerable, because I’m lonely.”

“You are.”

Wilson shakes his head. “You... want me to want you. But you don’t think I can. You like me.” He’s positively gleeful. House wants to strangle him.

He growls and goes to heave himself out of bed. He doesn’t know where he’ll go, but he knows he doesn’t want to listen to another one of Wilson’s sanctimonious lectures. Not now, not about this.

“No, no, wait!” Wilson grabs his arm. “House. I want you.”

“Sure you do. Until the shine of my temporary vulnerability wears off, and you find someone needier. Then you’ll remember I’m a mean old cripple, and realize you must’ve been out of your mind to want to do me, pussy or not.”

“You think I’ll leave you?” Wilson asks, incredulous. “I’ve known you for most of my adult life, I’ll never leave you.”

“You did!” he shouts, making Wilson flinch. “Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten. It’s only been a few months.”

“House, what...?”

“The miracle woman,” he sighs, fight leaving his body. It’s got to be at least three by now. House is so, so tired. “I told you I wanted you to stay, and you still left. You lied. You left me, for her, and you lied to me about it.”

“I was—I didn’t think you cared, I... I didn’t know it was like that. I would have stayed if you’d just told me how you felt!”

House laughs, humorlessly. “Yeah. And then you still would have slept with her.”

Wilson’s face goes pale. “You think I’d—House, I wouldn’t cheat on you!” He says it angrily, like it’s an absurd thing for House to think. Bastard.

“You have cheated on every—”

“I never cheated on Julie! And I—I may have cheated on Bonnie, but that’s not what really ruined our marriage. That was you.”

“What, I made you cheat on Bonnie?”

“Well, kind of. I mean, it wasn’t your fault,” Wilson says, sheepish. “I—you know I came back in the middle of our honeymoon when you had your infarction. I was never at home, I had to be with you. I wanted to be with you. I didn’t understand the way I wanted to be with you then, but... God, it sounds awful, but I just didn’t care about Bonnie anymore. Not when you needed me.”

House glares at him. “Right. And then you dropped me again, when I’d recovered enough that I didn’t need you anymore. You met Julie. Just like with our miracle woman.”

“House, when I was living with you, I was scared! I was miserable, and, and lonely, and I felt weird about living with you. I kept having... thoughts about you, and you were right there, and you had no idea, and I felt like a creep, taking advantage of you when you thought you were just helping a friend.”

“...Even then?” House asks, warily.

“Wh—yes, even then. House, you were making me crazy. You were everywhere, and I couldn’t get off because I felt too weird doing it in your apartment. I felt like I was going to explode. You know, on top of all the emotional turmoil. God, I don’t even know if I was really attracted to Grace. We were using each other, I guess.”

A tiny, reluctant sliver of hope trickles down House’s spine. “And you’re sure this isn’t just about how I’m currently the most convenient source of pussy in your life?”

“House, I won’t lie, this has been... a lot to take in, and I want you to explain it all properly even though I know you’re never going to, but I know you’re not a woman. I can’t picture you as a woman. I don’t know what that would even look like.” He stares earnestly into House’s eyes. “I promise you that if you’d been asking me to give you a, a, weird illegal prostate exam in your bedroom, I would have been just as turned on.”

“Yeah? How turned on were you?”

Wilson starts to smile cautiously. “So turned on. God, when I opened your thighs and you were so pink and swollen, and then I put my fingers in and you kept squeezing... I was so horny I felt like I was going to pass out.”

“Go on.” House waves for him to continue.

“Even when I was looking through the speculum, it was... still kind of hot,” Wilson says. House raises his eyebrows. “I know, I know. I’m not—it’s just, you looked so soft and, and wet, and...” He trails off, squirming in embarrassment.

“No, no. Totally normal to see a pregnant cervix and think boy that looks fuckable,” House says. “You lunatic.”

“It wasn’t that, it was just... the way you were letting me in. I stopped being into it once I got out the needles.”

“Oh, thank God. Had me worried you were some kind of pervert.”

Wilson laughs. “When I got back here, I jerked off for ages thinking about the way you felt around my fingers. Wishing I’d been barehanded.”

House is considering it. Has considered it, often. How it would feel to have Wilson’s fingers in him properly, his tongue, his cock. “Too bad,” he says, “hole’s closed for business for at least the next two weeks.”

“But... you want to? In two weeks. When you’re healed.”

He shrugs. “Eh, you gotta prove yourself against New Jersey’s shower heads somehow.”

Wilson lunges forward over the bed and kisses him. It’s desperate, messy, full of fifteen years of pent up energy. House lets him press him back down into the bed, eyes closing. It’s nice to, for once, be the object of Wilson’s desire. He likes it. Wilson’s probably never kissed any of his wives like this; like he’s starving, like he can’t remember how to do anything else. Another point in House’s corner. Bonnie and Julie have long since stopped counting, but it’s important to keep tallying the scores. Just in case.

(The current score is Sam 0, Bonnie 17, Julie -24, and House 118. Sam’s potential negative is evened out by House’s secret gratefulness to her for divorcing Wilson in the first place, causing him to have a public tantrum in New Orleans in 1991. Bonnie did okay with the hand she’d been dealt. Julie never even tried.)

Wilson eases back, breathing heavily and red in the face. “Two weeks. Okay. I can do two weeks. Two weeks is nothing.”

House pushes him off, wriggling until he’s laying on his good side, back to Wilson’s chest, spooned against him. He can feel Wilson’s dick where it’s tenting his pajamas, probably hard ever since House made him talk about Thursday. Sleepily, House reaches back and gives it a pat.

“Ah—House. You’re really not making this easier.”

“Nope,” House agrees, “I’m making it harder.” He slides his pants and underwear down, hears Wilson gasp behind him.

“What are you—we can’t, your cervix is still open, you’ll get an infection!” Despite his words, House feels Wilson’s hips move against him, grinding gently against his ass. He grabs Wilson’s hand and pulls it around, placing it over his mound. Wilson, dutiful as always, curls his fingers around his clit.

“God, no wonder Julie had an affair. You’ve got no imagination.” He hears Wilson groan, halfway between annoyed and horny. “C’mon, get your dick out already.” Wilson pinches his clit, hard, making him squawk, but does so.

He tucks Wilson’s cock between his thighs, nice and snug against his pussy, dragging through the wetness gathered there.

Thus arranged, House closes his eyes, happy to doze off while Wilson does all the work.

—

Saturday

House wakes with an arm wrapped around his middle, a wet mouth breathing onto the back of his neck, and his leg and abdomen screaming at him in tandem. “Hhrrghh,” he says, slapping his hand onto the bedside table in search of his pills.

“Mm? Oh!” The mouth disappears, a body leans over him, and then two pills are pressed into his palm. He dry-swallows them gratefully. A hand digs purposefully into his thigh, working out some of the tension.

Thirty seconds later, he feels almost alive enough to consider his surroundings. He is, surprisingly, not at all sticky. Wilson (probably who the hand, mouth, and body belong to, in hindsight) must have washed them both off last night.

“Feeling okay?” Wilson asks. He’s multitasking—still digging his fingers into the worst of the tension in House’s leg, but also getting really into nuzzling into the thinning hair at the back of his head. He inhales, hums contentedly, apparently satisfied with the House-scalp-smell he’s huffing. Freak.

“I’d feel better with room service pancakes,” House says.

Wilson chuckles. “I can’t rub your leg and order pancakes at the same time. Figured I still owed you from last night.”

“Twice over. Massage and pancakes.”

“Massage first. Pancakes when you’re nice and relaxed.”

“Better idea,” House begins, rolling onto his back. Wilson kisses him before he can explain said idea. It’s slow, nothing like the frantic lust of the previous night. Wilson eventually breaks for air, kisses down House’s neck, pulls at his t-shirt, rolling it up to his armpits.

“Better idea?” Wilson asks, before continuing his quest downward, focusing his attention on House’s nipples.

House lays there dumbly before remembering that he’s supposed to respond. “Uh... I was going to say first round of pancakes now, second round later.”

Wilson lets House’s right tit out of his mouth and looks up at him. “You want me to stop and order pancakes?”

“Nah, you can go ahead and finish up first.”

“Great.” He goes lower, down House’s ribcage, his stomach, his hips, until he’s finally mouthing at his clit.

—

Several minutes later, Wilson crawls back up House’s body, wiping his left hand on the sheets and his mouth on the back of his right. “So,” he pants, looking exceptionally proud of himself, “did Crandall ever do that?”

“I knew it,” House says, triumphantly. “You were jealous.”

“I—maybe. I’d been in the trenches for years, and he just... did you. Like it was easy.”

“Oh, no, you weren’t just jealous of Crandall getting to hit it raw. You’ve been jealous since you met him. You’ve hated him since I said that thing about his car.”

“He’s—he’s no one! He’s some random moron, he clearly doesn’t understand the purpose of prophylactics, he just waltzed in and, and got you pregnant, and left. He’s irresponsible!” Wilson gets more and more incensed as he goes on, working himself into a frustrated little fit.

“And he liked to drive me around in his car,” House says, smug and immensely pleased.

Wilson huffs. “I drive you around in my car. You never said you’d marry me because of it.”

“Obviously. You’re terrible at being married. You’ve failed at it three times. I can suck your dick about it, if you want.”

“An acceptable substitute.” Pacified by the prospect of oral sex on the horizon, Wilson relaxes back down into the bed.

“It’s only fair,” House continues. “I mean, I sucked Crandall’s dick about it all the time. Pretty sure we spent more time in the back seat of his car than the front.”

“House,” Wilson groans, “I don’t want to hear about how much sex you had with your... is he your ex? Is that what he is?”

House shrugs. “He’s Crandall. I think we’re moving away from the real issue here.”

“And what would that be?”

“That I’m a recently-pregnant cripple and I need pancakes, stat.”

Wilson picks up the phone.