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The stale scent of Vicodin withdrawal still clings faintly to the apartment's air—bleach and lemons failing to mask it entirely—as October moonlight slices through half-drawn blinds in Princeton. James Wilson lies spread-eagled on rumpled Egyptian cotton sheets, wrists secured to bedposts with silk ties from Greg's discarded Armani suit. Naked except for the flush blooming across his collarbones, he's deep in subspace: pupils blown wide, breathing shallow, looking impossibly small with his limbs slack and delicate wrists swallowed by silk.
A contented hum vibrates in his throat as he watches Greg rummage through the medicine cabinet, the Chief Oncologist reduced to a blissed-out, trusting creature. Greg House slams the cabinet shut, cane thumping against hardwood as he turns. His gaze sweeps over James—the way moonlight gilds the sweat-damp hollow of his throat, the hypnotic rise-fall of his abdomen—before settling on his face.
"Kitten." The word drops like gravel, rough with impatience.
James' eyelashes flutter, a dreamy smile tugging his lips. House limps closer, shadow swallowing James' smaller frame. He braces a hand against the headboard, leaning down until his stubble scrapes James' temple.
"Stop fucking around," he growls, the heat of his breath raising goosebumps on James' skin. "Tell Daddy where you hid his Prozac."
His free hand trails down James' side, nails scraping lightly over ribs before gripping his hip—possessive, demanding. James whimpers, arching into the touch like a cat seeking sunbeams.
"Or," House murmurs, lips brushing the shell of James' ear, "I'll leave you right here." He taps James' bound wrist. "With Hey There Delilah." He enunciates each syllable of the Plain White T's song title like a curse. "On loop. All night."
James' breath hitches. His eyes snap fully open, subspace haze clearing into sudden, horrified clarity. "Greg—"
"Tick-tock, kitten." House straightens, tapping his watch. "Daddy's got clinic in six hours."