Pathetic

I close my eyes and lean my head against the back of the couch. I have almost drifted off when I hear him come clumping back into the room. He puts his cane to the side and, with some difficulty, gets to his knees in front of me.



"Undo your shirt."



"I just put it on."



He sighs, in a dramatic show of how put out he is, then tilts his chin down and glares at me so that it is clear that he is telling, not asking.



"I want to check your ribs."



"Or cop a feel," I say, working the row of buttons.



"Yeah," he smirks, "man boobs are hot!"



"I don't have man boobs," I protest as we both look down at my now bared chest. I haven't seen the inside of a gym for a long time, but they are hardly breast-like.



"What do you call those?" he asks, poking inquisitively at one brown nipple.



"Pecs?" I ask hopefully, and House lowers his head, unsuccessfully hiding a smile.



"Okay, pecs."



His fingers roam from that nipple down to my torso, and any mirth that I had been harboring quickly dissipates.



"Oh, Jimmy," he says solemnly, "was he wearing hooker boots?"



I grunt as he applies pressure and turn my head away.



"Well…that would make him easier to pick out in a line-up, wouldn't it?"



House doesn't answer; he's in full doctor mode now. He smoothes his hand across each rib, pressing and exploring with gentle firmness.



"Are they broken?" I ask.



"Two, at least," he says, feeling around some more, "maybe three. We should ice them, then wrap you up."



He slides another hand into my shirt to check the other side. I jump, as if goosed.



"Did that hurt?" he asks, pausing.



I shake my head.



"They only kicked me once, on my left."



"Okay," he says, sliding a hand over my chest and ribs anyway. "I'm just making sure."



Suddenly the cotton pajama pants he's lent me seem awfully thin and I squirm, restlessly.



"Are you sure you're not in pain?"



I nod while his hands continue to skim over me and pray he doesn't notice the blush in my cheeks. House picks up a small shopping bag that he's brought in from the kitchen and pulls out a bag of frozen peas.



"I'd have preferred pizza," I quip, tensing against the startling cold.



"Yeah, me too, but pepperoni does nothing for the swelling."



I take a (sort of) deep breath and wait for my body to adjust to the temperature change. Despite the horrible circumstances, it feels nice to be here again. Be with him again. I lean my head back and let my eyes fall closed.



Suddenly House's fingers are in my mouth, and I sit up, grunting with the effort.



"What the hell?"



"You've chipped some teeth."



"You'll chip some fingers if you don't get them out of my mouth."



He removes them, then proceeds to manhandle my lip.



"Do you want me to put a butterfly on that?"



For one crazy head-injury, vicodin-induced moment, I think that he is speaking of literally placing an insect on my face, but then realize that he's meant a type of bandage. I shake my head no.



"It's swollen," he says, and reaches into his glass, pulling out an ice cube. "Here, this will help."



The ice might help, but the residual alcohol burns like a bitch.



"Hou-" I try to say, but he puts a finger to his lips and shushes me.



"Suck it," he says, and my mind spins with the endless fantasies of him saying something similar under very different circumstances. He is so close to me, pressed between my thighs, his face only inches from my own, his fingers still holding the ice cube to my lips.



I look into those penetrating blue eyes (Oh god! Did I just say penetrating?) and try to read them, but they're as mystifying as ever.



"Is this helping?" he asks, referring to the ice.



I shake my head no. Nothing will help what I'm feeling right now.



House takes the ice and rubs it in small circles on my lip.



"Suck harder, then."



I smile around the cube and a trickle of melted ice runs down my chin and onto my chest. House watches it dribble, then pauses, as if perched on the edge of a decision. He briefly meets my gaze, then dips his head to my collarbone and puts his lips to the moisture there. I hold my breath as his warm tongue slides along the ridge and comes to rest in the hollow of my throat, then stops.



We both wait, the room silent save for the erratic beating of my heart.



"Is this helping?" he murmurs into my neck, and I let out a shaky breath. My mouth works, but my head will not supply the words. I don't know how to answer; I only know I don't want him to stop.



"Baby Jesus on a rollercoaster," I finally manage, "what the hell?"



I can feel him grinning into my neck. He slides up to meet my eyes and gives me a half shrug. "I changed my mind."



I know that he's lying, and I endeavor to tell him so, but now he's kissing me, his tongue sliding along the crease of my lips, and I part them, allowing him in. He is warm and tastes slightly of gin, but it feels so right that I submit to him further, injured lip be damned.



The kiss deepens, my jaw working, my tongue meeting his. His hands are in my hair and I realize that I'm gripping his head as well. I know I should stop. This isn't what he wants, but I'm a coward, so I say nothing.



He plunders my mouth ruthlessly, and as he leans forward, his thigh brushes against my hardness and I give a shuddering breath. He immediately pulls back, concerned.



"Are you all right?"



I shake my head no. I'm not all right. I am Holy Shit, floating above the clouds, fuckin' amazing, but I am most decidedly not all right. His brow creases slightly as he looks me over, and I try not to think of how ridiculous I must appear right now, with my swollen eye and puffy, whisker-burnt lips. A sort of half-ravished Quasimodo. The heat simmering behind his own heavy-lidded gaze tells me that what he sees is something very different.



"Oh, Jimmy," he sighs, and I barely have the chance to ponder what he means before he's on me again, pinning me to the couch, pressing his mouth to mine. His kisses become more insistent, and our hands begin to roam, his down my chest to the drawstring waist of the pajama pants I'm wearing; mine across the broadness of his shoulders and down the length of his back, encircling him, pulling him closer.



Exquisite as his full weight pressed against me is, it's also overwhelming, and my ribs begin to protest en force. I break our kiss to catch my breath and I notice that I'm not the only one grimacing.



"Leg?" I ask, gasping for air.



"It's a bitch," he nods, his face screwed up in pain. I put a hand out to help him to his feet and he almost accepts before using the arm of the couch instead. He sees me watching him and naturally deflects my focus. "How're the ribs?"



I sigh, relieved, yet disappointed to have him off of me. "A bitch."



House grabs his cane and thumps away from the couch.



"I'm going to bed."



I wait, unsure of what I should do. The thumping stops partway down the hall.



"Do you need a written invitation, or what?" The thumping continues, and despite the pain, I waste no time getting to my feet and trotting after him.



***



He's standing by the bed when I arrive, and I notice that he's not yet removed any clothing. He smiles when he sees me, and that's good. He isn't regretting this yet, but he's unsure of what to do next and it gives me no small thrill to see him off of his game.



He looks from me to the bed, unsure. He is always so confident, so cock-sure of himself and I know that he is weighing each step here with me, which tells me how important this is to him. We're sailing in uncharted territory here and we both realize there will be no turning back. We may not be just kissing, but kissing our friendship goodbye.



We just look at each other for a while, each afraid to make the first move, but both of us wanting it done. I am about to close the space between us when he looks me in the eye and growls, "Come here."



I take a step and put a tentative hand on his chest, feeling it rise and fall beneath the soft cotton of his shirt. He slowly brings his arms up and pulls me into a hug. I press my head to his shoulder and let myself sink into his embrace. We stand this way for a long, long time, then he presses his lips to the top of my head and whispers, "I thought I'd lost you."



I pull away slightly and look up at him.



"You thought I was dead?"



He snorts and shuffles us closer to the bed.



"No. Dead people don't generally bitch and moan that much." Then he sobers and pins me with his gaze. "I thought I'd finally managed to push you away."



He rubs his nose on my cheek, then travels to the line of my jaw, his whiskers raking up a batch of goosebumps down my neck.



"You don't have to do this," I say, hoping against hope that he will anyway.



"I know."



I don't know what else to say, so I try to make myself useful by working the buckle of his belt. No easy feat, with his tongue in my ear. He pushes my already open shirt from my shoulders and smoothes his hands across my now-bare skin.



"Lose the pants."



"You first," I breathe, raising my hands in defeat. His hands move to his belt and have it undone in one smooth motion. In response, I hook my thumbs in the waist of my pants and pull them down, over my hips. My bobbing erection makes me oddly self-conscious, so I sit on the bed to remove them the rest of the way and wait nervously for House to join me.



He unzips his jeans, then pulls his t-shirt up and over his head. I stare at the smooth expanse of belly, a trail of hair leading up from his navel, spreading out across his chest and circling each nipple. I chew my bottom lip as I contemplate how it would feel to have those pink nubs harden and pebble under my tongue.



He sees me leering and arches one eyebrow, then gives me a gentle push to the sternum. I lie back, wincing at what it does to my ribs.



House finally frees his feet from his pants and stretches his lean form down beside me. It's dark, but the light from the hall spills over him, catching the contours of his shoulders and ribs, highlighting the soft hair on his arms.



He's looking at me again, searching my face for something I cannot guess at, and I suddenly realize that the flattering light behind him must be shining directly on my mangled face, showcasing my bruised eye and fat lip. I put a hand to my face and mumble apologetically.



"I'd be a lot better-looking if you closed your eyes."



House moves my hand and brushes his fingers down my cheek.



"You were much too pretty before, anyway." He lets his hand trail down to my chest where his fingers roam absently, the pad of his thumb tracing a circle around my nipple. "Plus," he whispers conspiratorially, "chicks dig scars."



He gives my nipple a gentle tweak and brushes his lips against mine.



"Really?" I ask breathlessly. "Do you think Cuddy will 'dig' the new, rough and tumble Wilson?"



House's eyes twinkle, and he presses forward, lips locking on mine, his hand trailing lower. I gasp and break the kiss when he wraps his hand around my cock.



"She'll have to fight me for you," he says, canting his hips forward and I gasp again as his prick rubs against mine.



It feels better than I had imagined it could, and he wraps his long fingers around both of our cocks, pressing them together, rocking against me. The warm, sweaty friction of his hand coupled with the wet heat of his mouth on mine almost make me come before I'm ready. He needs to slow down, or it's going to be over before it even starts, and I open my mouth to tell him so.



"House," I say, but it comes out more a throaty moan than a warning and he shudders in response. He tugs gently on our cocks, then gives them a squeeze, and although there's a bit more friction than I would prefer, the fact that it's House doing this to me - House's cock rubbing against mine, House's mouth on my shoulder, biting into my flesh - my mind can hardly comprehend.



I can feel him begin to tense; his hips find a rhythm and his breathing quickens. His whole body slowly becomes taut, his shoulders hunching; his back bends into an arch and his grip on us, already tight, becomes impossibly firmer.



He presses forward with a purpose, biting my shoulder more forcefully and slamming his hips against mine. It hurts my battered body, but I wouldn't have it any other way. I'm just so grateful to be here. To feel this. To be the one that he's chosen to do this with.



His body clenches, and as he twitches with the first wave of release, he says something into my shoulder, at first too muffled for me to understand, but then he says it again.



"Jimmy."



A few soft grunts and syncopated thrusts and he spills himself across my belly and chest. His hips continue to slowly roll against me and his hand remains on my prick.



"Oh fuck," he breathes into my ear, "you feel good."



"Told ya," I say, doing my best to look smug, and he snorts in answer. I press into his hand and suck his lower lip into my mouth. In my fascination over his orgasm I had momentarily forgotten my own pleasure, but my aching cock has taken priority status once again and I hope House is still willing.



He is.



He smears a finger through the white mess on my belly and brings it up to my face.



"You know," he says, his husky voice belying his matter-of-fact tone, "in some cultures, semen is believed to have mystical healing properties."



I raise my eyebrows. "…aaand that's why prostitutes live such long, healthy, and productive lives?"



House pauses, pondering my question, then gently slides his finger along my lips. With his other hand, he takes a smear of his come from my belly and slowly slicks my cock with it.



He lets the finger slip into my mouth and I swirl my tongue around it, tasting the bitter tang of his essence. House's eyes roll back, and his other hand begins to slide and pull on my cock.



He slips a second finger between my lips and I press them both to the roof of my mouth, suckling and running my tongue down the length of them. House sighs and presses his lips to mine and we both kiss and suck around the intrusion of his fingers.



I push my cock through the slick circle of his fingers and I can feel the slow build of pressure start to coil in my groin. He pulls and twists his hand, squeezing and rubbing, and a needy moan escapes my lips.



His hand is lightning-fast now; short, quick strokes, and I arch myself off of the bed to meet that wonderful heat, my toes curling, my hands fisted in the sheets.



"Come for me, Jimmy," he whispers into my mouth, and all I can do is obey, splattering my chest and belly with my own release.



I roll from my side to my back and gasp like a landed fish. House lies back as well and we both stare at the ceiling, waiting for our heart rates to slow. Minutes pass and I think that perhaps he's fallen asleep, but then he sits up and scoots off of the bed.



"Gotta piss," he says, as he grabs his cane and clomps off.



I wonder if things will get awkward between us, or if it will be the same, except now we'll have sex. We've been through so much together already that I can't imagine things changing, but this is such a colossally insane thing that we've just done, that I can't imagine us staying the same either.



Life is a risk, and I decide that, regardless of what happens after tonight, I won't regret my one reckless moment of hope this afternoon.



I hear the toilet flush and the water run, then House thumping towards the bedroom. He tosses a warm washcloth at me then flops down on the bed like a teenager. He wriggles towards me, and when he is close but not quite touching, he stops and gives a contented sigh.



I wipe at my sticky belly. I feel like I should say something, but I know of my propensity to ramble, so I open my mouth and shut it a few times, aborting what I know he will consider to be 'girl talk.'



I have to pee as well, but I'm tired and the bathroom seems very far away. I finish cleaning myself and deposit the damp cloth unceremoniously on House's bare chest. He snorts and tosses in onto the floor.



The room is dark and warm, and the bed - although mussed - is comfortable and soft.



"Wilson."



I jerk slightly, not realizing that I'd been falling asleep until he'd dragged me out of it.



"Yeah?"



"I was a real dick today."



"D'ya think?"



Silence.



"I'm sorry."



Another silence. I look over and can see him pursing his lips in the darkness. He looks at me, eyes full of regret. I take a breath and answer him. "I know."



He continues to search my face. "Are we okay?"



I pause, not wanting to make things too easy for him, but at the same time, I can't stand to see him suffer.



"Yeah. We're okay."



House sidles over a bit more and pulls the blanket over us. He presses up against me, one arm slung protectively over my chest, pulling me closer.



Then sleep takes me.