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“Don’t you have better things to do?” House grumbled, “Or better things to buy?” He was scrutinising another one of Wilson’s gifts, a thick, velvety tie the colour of oxygenated blood. Fitting, since he was going to court over a serial killer’s string of bloody murders. It’d definitely get the jury in the mood, though that insignificant byproduct hardly mattered when the cogs in House’s brain started turning.
“Not really,” Wilson confessed, shrugging when House flicked his imposing gaze up to stare at him. “Ever since my brother…” He shrugged again, knowing that House would understand. Having a schizophrenic for a brother, feeling guilty over him running off, hating himself for being the sole inheritor of his family’s fortune. House definitely did not envy the man, though now it sort of made sense. He just wanted to dump all of his trauma cash onto House, just wanted to wash his hands clean. Why else would he become a lawyer, if not to administer justice? He wanted to cleanse himself of his sin.
It was pathetic. House would continue to stay, though. How could he pass up on free gin?
“Yeah, the crazy madman and his trip to Vegas.” Snorting halfheartedly, House held the tie up to the light again, turning it this way and that underneath the warm courtroom lights. Wilson’s eyes tracked the movement, those doe browns overwhelming in the woody atmosphere. It was always like this in courts. He’d get the shivers from all that wood, the carpeted floors, the rows of faceless spectators. Why couldn’t they do it under stark white lights with concrete walls and bulletproof glass? Why was he always forced into this stuffy, posh place?
“Are you going to put it on?” Wilson huffed, acting all exasperated at House’s relentless judging of the silky satin. “Or do I have to do it for you?”
“You’d like that,” House drawled, draping the length of Wilson’s gift over his chest carelessly, not bothering to wrap it around his neck, which peeked out from under his collar enticingly. He smirked as Wilson’s tongue darted out, the sneaky little thing scampering along his lips to wet the drying skin. Tilting his head back just enough, and he could tell because of Wilson’s little jerk, House asked, “Help me?”
A large, indignant volume of air rushed past Wilson’s teeth at the suggestion, the molecules shredded by gleaming molars as Wilson screwed his jaw shut. House thought he’d heard a curse, maybe even a “Goddamnit”, though he wasn’t going to push it. Surely, he wasn’t that good. He had his charm and all, but its effect was often dulled by his leg and the resultant snark. Not for Wilson, though.
God, enough. It was just a little crush, the poor guy, and what could House do but take him for a ride?
When House continued to sag into the hard, straight-backed chair he’d have to break his back on for the next five hours, Wilson bit his lip just a little bit, one tooth pinching flesh as if that would relieve stress. “Fine,” he relented, standing up and approaching House’s slouched form, jittery hands forced still with sheer will.
“Nice arms,” House commented, the compliment somewhat genuine. Despite being a lawyer-to-be with a schedule so full he’d have to pass up on sleep, Wilson’s forearms were firm, the ambient light casting cozy shadows over tendons straining against skin. He definitely wasn’t ripped or anything, but House imagined that he’d be able to lift 120 no problem.
“Thanks,” Wilson replied, smiling a little as his nerves eased and his hands teased up House’s flank, fingers trailing lightly over the knob of his hipbone.
“I think you need to get your eyes checked,” House remarked. “Unless you’ve mistaken my belt for my tie.” Pushing just a little bit more, House canted his hips slightly off the chair, teasing, “Is this better, sir?”
“Sorry, I…” Wilson shook his head, hands leaving House’s body, muscles hovering over the man. He was about to panic, having been caught, his dirty, filthy hands having done that… thing again. But when he saw House looking at him, not a hint of hate or disgust evident in his curious, accepting face, all of that distaste swirled down the drain.
Slowly, Wilson’s fingers returned, sweaty, hesitant fingers picking up the tie and slinging it around House’s neck. The act was so tender, their faces drawn close as Wilson worked the flowy tendril around his lustrous jugular. House was studying him, eyes wide and observant as Wilson’s trimmed nails grazed his skin. He was feeling all of this, cataloguing it, memorizing it. He’d remember this, and Wilson bit the inside of his cheek. They both would.
This was… this was so good.