bironic | Fic! "A Helping Hand," House/Wilson, NC-17 (2/2)

Title: A Helping Hand
Fandom: House M.D.
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 8,670
Summary: Wilson has an unusually rough day and House decides (somewhat despite himself) to help. Things go further than he planned.
Disclaimer: Not mine in any way, alas.
A/N: Takes place between "Forever" and "No Reason." Spoilers through "Forever."
- Written for

slashfest for

michelleann68's prompt, Wilson loses 4 patients in one day and wants to be left alone, House has other plans.
- Thank you to everyone who offered tips and listened to me worry about keeping things in-character. And thank you to wrongdiagnosis.com for being an invaluable resource. Unbetaed; concrit welcome.

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Part One

House walked down the hall with a force that made the muscles of his right hand flutter, threatening to cramp, with each lurch onto the cane, his stubborn erection throbbing in his jeans at each step. His hand slipped on the polished wood; he half hoped the thing would slide from his grip, send him tumbling, so he'd have an excuse for a violent outburst. It didn't.

He pushed open the door to the men's room and didn't break stride until he stood at the sink. He leaned the cane against the counter, turned on the hot water and washed his hands for longer than necessary with a generous dollop of soap. He grabbed several paper towels and dried off, then dunked the damp paper under the faucet and wiped his cane clean. When he'd used the towels to turn off the tap and chucked the wad into the garbage slot, he stared at himself in the mirror.

His reflection didn't offer any answers.

He turned around and limped to the urinal. Within the confines of the curved porcelain, he opened his jeans with both hands and eased out his cock, looking down at it as though it belonged to someone else.

There was no way he'd be able to piss in this state. Damn it. Damn Wilson and damn himself and his stupid idea. His hand tightened—he clenched his jaw and squinted against the urge to let his eyelids flutter shut—and he began to tug at himself, just a little, moving the skin slightly up and down in his fist, stifling a groan at the sheer relief despite being alone in the room.

As he touched himself, grip too firm and pace too slow, an all-too-vivid image coalesced in his mind: Wilson, head back, eyes closed, sweating, clutching at him, choking out his name. That sound he'd made when he'd come. The slippery skin of his dick in House's hand. House tried to substitute some of his usual fantasies in its place—Cameron doing a strip-tease in his bedroom—Cuddy finally losing her temper, shoving him into a chair in her office and mounting him—but it was no good; the fresh memory of Wilson kept intruding. He imagined he could still feel Wilson's wet mouth on his neck.

His strokes strengthening, he leaned forward onto his left arm and pivoted slightly so he was standing as he had in Wilson's office. He was definitely getting harder. If he hurried, he would be able to finish, clean up and make it back before the other man suspected anything more than a need to calm his nerves.

The bathroom door opened.

House dropped his chin to his chest and slapped the wall, stilling his hand and swallowing a curse.

"Hey," Wilson said, quietly. House didn't reply.

Wilson walked over to the sink. House stood still and stiff, moving nothing but his eyes, seeing nothing but the crusted plumbing joints and the crumbling bleach tablet in the drain. He listened to Wilson wash and dry his hands and possibly his face. He couldn't pee and he didn't feel like trying to force himself back into his jeans, so he waited. Maybe Wilson would leave without another word, without inquiring as to why House was standing there holding his dick as though he were suddenly too shy to urinate with someone else in the room.

Of course Wilson didn't leave. But he didn't speak either. Instead, he crossed the few feet from the sink to House's urinal, hard rubber heels brushing against the floor. His steps sounded cautious. House was reminded of a gamekeeper approaching a wounded animal on the savannah.

Playing the part of the cornered prey, House did not move. Not even when Wilson stood right behind him. Not even when he touched House's waist.

Only when Wilson reached around and placed his right hand over his own on his cock (Jesus, his skin really was remarkably soft) did House close his eyes. The fingers of his left hand curled against the cool wall.

Wilson rested his lips on House's shoulder. "Show me," he said.

If House had drawn a line earlier with his demand for lube, then Wilson was drawing another one now. This boundary, however, seemed fraught with greater implications since it lacked the rationalization of one friend helping another after a difficult day.

Then Wilson nudged his hand, and the resultant surge of arousal pushed his own hand forward, and then back, and then forward again, pushed him across the line into territory too terrifying to contemplate.

Good thing he wasn't capable of much deep thought at the moment.

He was capable of some thought, though. Strange how Wilson—his hands and breath and body heat and steady gaze (which House couldn't follow but knew was directed at either his face or their hands)—the fact of him there, watching and participating, preserved House's self-awareness during an act that usually allowed him to put his brain on pause.

It also, he noticed, pleasantly intensified his arousal to a level his more potent fantasies and the occasional girls he hired were rarely able to achieve. As an experiment he let himself again remember the look on Wilson's face when he'd orgasmed, and felt his hips push forward slightly in response.

Stranger yet, then, to be turned on by fantasizing about the person currently helping one stroke one's penis.

Wilson didn't say anything when House's hips moved nor when he relaxed back, just kept his hand on his and continued to accompany him in rubbing his dick in slow, short jerks. It had to have been awkward for Wilson to use his non-dominant hand, but he followed House's lead without any apparent difficulty. In fact, he seemed to be very good at this, dextrous and sure, holding on tightly enough to remind House that he was there but loosely enough not to affect his grip.

His mind slipping into its more typical complacent masturbatory meanderings, House wondered whether Wilson's skill resulted from natural talent, private practice or application on others. Wives and mistresses and patients not enough for you to keep your hands off yourself, Jimmy? Or are there some after-school activities with the other boys you haven't told me about?

As if he'd heard House mocking him, Wilson shifted his hand, nudging his fingertips against House's knuckles. House spread his fingers and Wilson slid his own between them.

The doubled surface area and ribbed sensation had an incredible effect on his erection. Breath and strokes quickening, House lowered his head and found himself mesmerized by the sight of their joined fingers—one set pink, smooth and immaculately manicured, the other creased and cane-calloused and sprinkled with graying hair—moving in tandem back and forth along his dark, engorged cock.

His higher reasoning was unquestionably shutting down now. It was all he could do to stare at their hands and concentrate on finding the rhythm that would carry him to climax.

When they had held steady for a few minutes, Wilson flexed his hand again. "I've got it," he said, and stroked his thumb across the fleshy part of House's hand between thumb and forefinger—a small gesture of affection that would have startled House half an hour ago but which he accepted now without much difficulty.

House understood that Wilson wanted him to let go, let him take over, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. To stand there and let Wilson touch him unaided—bring him to orgasm—

House's hand spasmed and tightened its grip. He kept stroking. With luck, Wilson would take the hint.

On the contrary, his companion pressed up against him—cheekbone to shoulder, chest to back, crotch to ass—and slid his left arm further around House's ribs so his palm rested flat against his stomach. House closed his eyes, heart thudding.

Wilson almost-kissed his shoulder again. "Let me," he murmured. "I've got you."

House would have cracked some joke about training wheels or physiotherapy if he hadn't thought his voice would break. As it was, he barely managed to give in and stop stroking.

Wilson's hand stilled as well. He lifted it away so House could slide his from his dick. House let his arm rest at his side, then changed his mind and braced both hands on the wall. He felt ridiculous dangling there out in the open, hot flesh throbbing in the cool air.

Wilson had withdrawn slightly to reach into his pocket and pull something out. House opened his eyes as Wilson brought the object forward and around and held it in both hands at House's stomach.

It was the lotion container.

"You brought—" Surprised by how rough he sounded, House cleared his throat and tried again. "You brought it in with you?" Some of the fond pride he felt in Wilson's premeditation seeped into his tone despite his efforts to keep it strictly derisive. He blamed the fact that his brain was only functioning at 20-30% capacity.

"Always prepared," Wilson replied, and House was pleased to hear that his voice was also a little husky. "I wasn't an Eagle Scout for nothing."

That was all the banter House felt capable of, and his dick was going to need attention very soon, so he let Wilson continue in silence.

Chin on House's left shoulder now, still enclosing him in a loose embrace, Wilson unscrewed the jar, scooped out some lotion, closed the container and tossed it to the floor, where it landed with a clack and rolled away in a wobbly curve. House didn't see how far it got because his attention was suddenly focused on Wilson rubbing his hands briskly together—to warm the lotion, he realized—and then wrapping his slick left hand around House's now almost-painful erection. House took a breath and held it.

Wilson began to move with the force and rhythm House had set before. House had no idea how he remembered it so precisely. All he knew was that it felt good. Very, very good. He focused on the pleasure of Wilson's palm and fingers stroking him; it had the side benefit of helping take his mind off the fact that he was feeling far more exposed now that Wilson was touching him directly and far more vulnerable now that he'd relinquished control.

"Good?" Wilson asked at his ear.

House grunted.

They lapsed back into silence as Wilson continued to work at him. When he started pulling slightly harder and faster a few minutes later, House didn't complain.

Wilson's right forearm was pressed against House's ribs with his lotioned hand hovering far enough from his shirt to avoid staining it. Through the fog of arousal, House wondered why he'd bothered rubbing both hands together if one of them was just going to hang there.

His unspoken question was answered soon enough when Wilson slid his arm forward and down and cupped House's balls. House made a noise of appreciation that bled into a second, slightly louder one as Wilson began to gently roll the sac in his palm.

It didn't take long before he found himself thrusting into Wilson's grasp. His fingertips had gone white against the wall and his breath was embarrassingly heavy.

Considering that he'd very recently seen Wilson in the throes of orgasm, though, House figured he didn't need to waste his energy on shame.

That thought brought back the image of Wilson against his office wall, half-sobbing about the death of a boy who'd reminded him of House. Coming into his hand. And that sound he'd made.

Wilson trailed his hand up from House's balls and, without slowing the fervent strokes of his other hand, dragged a fingernail along the slit in his glans.

House's breath caught, then released as he ejaculated into the urinal.

When he was done, he stood with his head bowed, his arms still out straight in front of him, breathing and trying to calm his racing heart.

Wilson let go of him and stepped back. House found that he couldn't turn to look him in the eye. Maybe it was a moot point anyway, because Wilson walked to the sink.

House moved one hand to flush the urinal and kept everything else still. He didn't want to disturb the sleepy mellow afterglow until he absolutely had to, and his leg was probably going to scream bloody murder when he finally moved it after standing in the same position for so long.

Wilson had finished washing his hands, but after he'd dried off House heard him take more paper towels and briefly turn the water on again. He lowered his right arm and straightened in preparation.

Sure enough, Wilson reappeared at his side with a clump of wet towels. "Here," he said.

House took them with a quiet "Thanks." They were warm. He mopped himself clean, or a close approximation thereof, then dropped the wad in the urinal. Lowering his somewhat stiff left arm with a wince, he got himself back into his underwear and jeans and prepared to try to move his legs.

"Here," Wilson said again. This time House turned his head. Once more the image of normalcy, Wilson stood with House's cane in both hands. His eyebrows were slightly raised and his brown eyes were calm.

Wilson's composure calmed him in turn; the niggling anxiety in his chest and coincident urge to laugh subsided. He didn't think he would have reacted as well if he'd detected worry or pity or blatant affection in that gaze.

Without looking away, House reached out and took his cane. He didn't break their gaze until he leaned most of his weight on the cane and tentatively bent his right knee.

It didn't feel fantastic, but it wasn't as bad as he'd feared. Probably mitigated by the orgasm. He flexed it a few more times to make sure it wouldn't cramp or collapse under him, then shifted his weight to it and stretched his left leg.

"How is it?" Wilson asked.

"Need a Vicodin," he said, because it was true and because it would prolong this tranquillity. "Did you stash my pill bottle in your pants too?"

Wilson shook his head, but House's comment must have reminded him about the other item he'd had in his pocket, because he turned around in search of the lotion container on the floor.

"There," House said when he spotted it under the far sink. Wilson went to fetch it.

House made his way over to the counter. He was achy, but it was nothing a Vicodin or two wouldn't take care of soon enough. He washed his hands for what felt like the tenth time that night.

Wilson came back and leaned against the counter, offering House the choice of looking at the back of his head in the mirror or his face right beside him.

"What now?" Wilson asked.

Half a dozen random and incompatible scenarios flashed through House's mind: the two of them walking down the hall unable to think of anything to say; making out on his couch in front of the TV; continuing to meet for lunch and movies and intrude in each other's personal and professional lives as if nothing had happened; jerking each other off again in an exam room in the middle of the day; avoiding each other at work until his fellows demanded to know what was going on; getting drunk and fucking in his bed.

"Dunno," he said, blinking away that last image with some difficulty. It was too soon, and he was too tired, for complex extrapolation.

"Well, you'd better come back to my office at least. Your stuff's still in there."

House grunted, staring into the middle distance. Then he straightened and regarded Wilson head to toe. "You'll probably want to hit the showers," he said. "You stink." It wasn't strictly true (though there was a vague muskiness about him), but the man had to have felt at least as sticky as he did, and Wilson had been sweating more.

Wilson smirked. "I'm not the only one."

"I smell of soap and girly hand lotion that I hope to soon be complementing with the faint but unmistakable aroma of Vicodin," House declared, knowing Wilson wouldn't protest that Vicodin had no scent. He walked to the door.

Wilson caught up and fell into step with him a few feet into the hallway. "You rent anything good for the weekend?"

"Nope; haven't sent the last batch back yet. Don't you have dead people paperwork?"

"It can wait until Monday."

House glanced over to find that Wilson was already looking at him hopefully. "I TiVo'd the whole week's worth of General Hospital. A six-pack and a pizza will earn you a couch cushion all to yourself."

House didn't miss the spark of—delight? relief?—in Wilson's eyes. So he hadn't been the only one wondering whether anything had changed tonight.

"Conte's?" Wilson asked.

"Extra cheese and pepperoni."

"Done."

"Good. I'm starving."

They reached Wilson's office. House opened the unlocked door himself, flicked on the light and went straight for the pills in his jacket.

Wilson closed the door behind them. "Just give me a minute to tidy up," he said.

House decided to take only one Vicodin. After he'd swallowed it and slipped the container back into his pocket, he sat on the couch and passed his cane from one hand to the other between his legs.

As Wilson neatened his desk, House took a quiet breath and sought an answer to the question that had been pressing at him for a while now. "Are we gonna do this every time you have a bad day?"

The sound of papers shuffling paused for a moment, then resumed. "That would be up to you, wouldn't it?"

No way was Wilson going to foist the decision on him without first revealing his opinion. "You did half the work," he shot back.

Wilson tapped a pile of folders against his blotter to line up the edges. "I...wouldn't be opposed to doing this again," he said at last. It was clear from his tone that that was a gross understatement. House had his answer.

He weighed the potential advantages of such an arrangement against the possibility of screwing things up irrevocably between them. The myriad scenarios in which they might find themselves sooner or later flashed through his head again. He nodded. "Okay."

"Okay," Wilson echoed. He opened and shut a desk drawer and pushed in his chair. "I'm done here. I have a change of clothes in my car."

"Why am I not surprised?" House said as he got up and put on his jacket and backpack.

Wilson likewise donned his suit jacket and slung his briefcase over his shoulder. He gestured for House to precede him out the door.

Wilson locked his office while House got a head start down the hallway. They walked to the elevator, waited, and rode down in silence. The reception area was empty and Cuddy's office dark. They crossed the room and pushed open the glass doors at the entrance.

On the cement path out front, Wilson turned to House. "We don't only have to do it on bad days," he ventured. He followed that up with a quirky little smile.

House didn't smile back, but he could feel his lips twitch and the muscles around his eyes relax. "Go get dinner," he said.

Wilson's smile broadened. "See you back at your place."

House watched him walk off to his car. Then he turned and started towards the handicapped spaces, swinging his keys once in his left hand.

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x-posted to

slashfest and

house_wilson.