I have two fuchsia peony blossoms sitting in water on my kitchen table. They're bigger than both my fists, combined. And they smell wonderful.

That said: here's another fic. F-locked probably until Monday. Concrit is very much appreciated!

ETA: Unlocked now.

And So The Heavens Fell

by Topaz Eyes

Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: NC-17 (frottage)
Summary: Why Wilson moved out of House's apartment.
Disclaimer: House and Wilson belong to David Shore et al. Sadly I am neither et nor al.
Word Count: 4026
A/N: Many thanks to daasgrrl, who made the crucial suggestion at the end; to leiascully and elicia8 for suggestions; bironic for beta; and to my f-list! ♥ Lyric snippet from "Hallelujah" by Leonard Cohen.


It doesn't matter which you heard,
The holy, or the broken, Hallelujah.

House woke up with a start, opening his eyes to the pre-dawn light in the room. For a moment he was delirious—he was used to drifting on waves of pain first, instead of shooting awake like this—until he remembered where he was. He turned his head to glance at the bedside clock. Through the gray, he could just make out the numbers on the display flipping over to five-thirty.

There was just enough light in the room to blur the outlines of shapes, draining them of both color and substance. At the cusp of night and day, when everything was uncomfortably surreal, it was definitely not time to be awake yet. For him, that would be three hours (or more) later. Wilson, however, would be up in about an hour, fussing about his morning routine and generally interrupting House's own. Until then, sleep was the preferred option.

Though getting back to sleep might prove tricky—what with the extra guest in his bed. He turned his head to the left to observe said guest: Wilson, who was sleeping, rather soundly, beside him.

His sofa did need cleaning, he couldn't argue with that. The pee stain had grown increasingly rank over the last couple of days, until the wafting ammonia assaulted even House's indelicate nose when he sat down on the cushions. So, yeah, he couldn't exactly fault Wilson for wanting it cleaned, if he were going to continue sleeping on it.

He hadn't expected that the cleaners would actually remove his couch from the premises.

"Sent it for cleaning," Wilson had yelled from the kitchen, before House, who hadn't even removed his jacket yet, could utter an indignant What the hell have you done with my couch, Wilson?

"Oh, that's swell. And where are we going to sit and eat while we watch TV?"

Wilson had stepped into the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on a towel. "Well, there's this newfangled item called a table, at which one can sit and eat. You know, a flat surface, raised off the ground by four legs, often made of wood? Oddly, it's an invention that you actually have and never use. I found it hidden under this nest of papers." Wilson had pointed to the piles of journal articles and newspapers, which were now stacked neatly on his piano bench.

House hadn't eaten at his dining room table in years, though Wilson's excellent lasagna Mediterranean had gone a long way in easing that discomfort. Oddly enough, he hadn't minded sitting at the table, either, especially since Wilson had gone to the trouble of turning the TV to a convenient angle.

It was just that he wished Wilson had offered to move into a hotel for the night, or at least sleep in his office.

House had not shared a bed with anyone for several years. Sure, Wilson had stayed over at House's apartment countless times, and had poured House into bed almost as frequently; but he'd always, always crashed on the couch afterwards. The hookers he hired occasionally kept their business to the sofa too. House saw his bed—its orthopedic mattress, four-hundred-count percale sheets, worn yet comfortable blankets—as his ultimate sanctuary.

The last person who'd shared his bed had been Stacy. Her brief presence in his bed a few weeks ago, only made her subsequent (and permanent) absence worse. With Wilson now ensconced in his apartment, recovering from his own heartache, that loss was finally receding, though he wouldn't exactly admit it.

He didn't just allow anyone in. Except, last night, Wilson had actually assumed that House would let him stay there. And House, momentarily caught off-guard by the proposition, had agreed to it before he could consider all its potential ramifications.

Wilson's hair was mussed in sleep, faint smudges shadowing his eyes. His mouth half-parted, a thin line of silvery drool trailed down his chin and pooled onto the pillow. Yuck. What was it with Wilson exuding various body fluids all over his belongings? The pillow would need to be sanitized. Or burned.

But it was also, if House dared to admit it, weirdly endearing, watching his friend sleep beside him. Not just for the blackmail possibility either. He couldn't shake the sheer joy at having Wilson living in his apartment with him. That was something he hadn't felt in like—what seemed like forever. He allowed himself a small (very small) smirk.

His leg hurt, that was a given; but it was oddly muted this morning, as if the extra heat in the bed soothed it. He actually felt warm, and relatively pain-free.

He also had the beginning of an erection.

Great.

Not that this happened often anymore; most mornings the searing pain from his leg pummeled the pleasurable signals from his groin into submission. But the scorched nerves in his thigh were remarkably cooperative and quiet this morning, which allowed him to notice, even in his half-awake state, how his brushed cotton pajama pants rubbed against his sensitive glans. He could feel more blood engorging the corpora cavernosa and the corpus spongiosum with each heartbeat. If he concentrated hard enough, he could visualize the valves closing to trap that blood—

Dammit, he was hard to the point of having to do something about it.

Well, this was fucking embarrassing.

There was no way he was going to jack off in bed with Wilson lying just a foot beside him. Even if Wilson were dead to the world. Neither could he go to the couch, since it wasn't there. The only other alternative he saw was going to the bathroom. That would mean getting up, and stumping, and shivering in the cool air and thus re-awakening his leg, which would effectively kill any pleasure by the time he sat down on the toilet. (Not to say that Wilson might suspect something, if he turned on the shower at this stupid o'clock in the morning.)

Besides, he was just too damn comfortable where he was to want to move right now. Except for the horny feeling, of course.

He entertained a brief thought of making Wilson get up and take his shower early, perhaps by shoving him off the bed and onto the hardwood floor. Then House could use those minutes in privacy to jerk off in the comfort of his bed, and Wilson would be none the wiser.

His right hand slid down his stomach, past the waistband of his pants to pluck the cotton off. It was a temporary fix at best. In the process, his hand brushed against his dick, and his hips bucked up slightly. Dammit.

And just his luck--just at that moment--Wilson rolled over to face him.

House tensed, his hand sliding off his pants back to the mattress, but Wilson didn't seem to wake up. In rolling over, however, Wilson's momentum forced him right up against House's side. House stifled a frustrated sigh. He almost went to turn him back over; if he stirred, he'd claim Wilson was snoring.

But something in the way Wilson rested alongside him, stopped him.

Wilson did not cuddle, or nestle, or burrow, or any of those other couple-y words, against him. Hell, he didn't even throw an arm over his chest. His forehead and cheek leaned against House's left shoulder, his chest pressed against House's arm; his knees, slightly bent, touched House's left leg.

House didn't want to think how pathetic it was, that he was enjoying this sudden closeness a bit too much. Worse, that it felt like he was stealing this human contact. Taking it by stealth. Taking it from Wilson.

Yet at the same time he didn't want to think how right it seemed, to feel Wilson's warmth and slow, humid breaths against his shoulder. Surely he could just chalk all this up to his still-bleary state—

His left hand twitched against the mattress.

And brushed against something—hard?

What the fuck? Is that—?

House froze, completely still, as he tried very hard not to think about what he had just touched.

Wilson's forehead furrowed, as if he were frowning, and his cheek slid against House's T-shirt. But he otherwise didn't seem to stir.

House was trapped, unable to move lest his leg ratcheted up the agony scale, but his mind spun like Steve running in his wheel. He blinked, his gaze darting across the ceiling for any hint of an answer. What to think, what to say—hell, what to do? He remembered that scene from "Planes, Trains And Automobiles," when John Candy cuddled against Steve Martin in that tawdry motel room. He'd laughed long and hard at that.

Except he'd never believed that, someday, he might be the one lying in bed beside his best friend—feeling lonely, hard and horny—and with his hand lying only scant inches away from said best friend's equally erect penis.

Ah, fuck. (And all its cognates.)

Wilson shifted beside him again, pressing his chest up just a little tighter against House's trapped arm. The seeming innocence of the movement made House wonder if Wilson weren't actually playing possum. If House basked in this companionable, albeit surreptitious, contact, why the hell wouldn't Wilson? The man was still hurting from Julie's betrayal, so he was probably just as lonely. He certainly hadn't gotten any either (flirting with the nurses notwithstanding), since he'd moved in, as far as House could tell, so he was probably just as horny. The hardness—well, he'd just felt the physical evidence of that. He'd never pegged Wilson as an opportunist that way, but it did make twisted sense.

There was one way to confirm his hypothesis. House twitched his left hand again, this time on purpose. His fingers feathered against a definite tent of soft brushed cotton with a warm hardness beneath it. Yep, it was definitely there.

What he didn't expect was how Wilson canted his hips forward, so that the brush, for a brief second, became full contact as he pressed into House's touch.

A blue jolt fired from House's groin straight to his brain. He exhaled audibly from the shock, his eyes widening as his brain swung into overdrive. This was wrong, this was so wrong on so many levels, his conscious mind protested. This was Wilson. His girl-ogling, thrice-married, very straight partner in crime.

But his baser desires were as relentlessly pragmatic as House's more sophisticated thoughts were logical. This was a warm and apparently willing body beside him; to be honest, he was too fucking horny right now to care who it was. Too fucking lonely to allow that it might not be such a great idea to screw his best friend.

House turned over on his left side.

Wilson scooted away a bit to allow him room to settle. House aligned his body with Wilson's: chest to chest, stomach to stomach, knee to knee, though not quite touching, not yet. His body thrummed with this—whatever it was—nerves, or need. He could feel the air between their bodies crackle with it under the covers, the sweat prickling his skin. At the same time, he kept his pelvis straight. Still not wanting to dive right in yet, he held back, wanting an escape route.

He chanced a look at Wilson's face. Wilson's lips were parted now; he was breathing through his mouth, slightly whistling. His head nodded against the pillow. His lids fluttered, but did not open. House knew that if he pressed, just a couple more inches—but he suddenly tensed again, unable to cross that final space.

It was Wilson who closed the distance first, sliding forward so that they finally touched. One arm snaked over House's bicep, pulling him in flush against him. House mimicked the movement so that they lay in an awkward embrace. Wilson buried his nose in the crook between his neck and shoulder. House shivered and felt Wilson's body quivering too under his hand, felt his lips quirk and his breath exhale in a slow shudder against his skin.

It was House, though, who arched his hips forward, seeking full contact where it counted. He brushed against Wilson's pelvis, feeling that definite hardness against his own through two layers of cotton. Another jolt shot through from groin to brain, but then he was tensing despite himself—he wanted it, but would Wilson?

After a long, uncertain moment, Wilson pressed back, rubbing against him.

House relaxed, exhaling the breath he hadn't been aware of holding. Soon they were tangled and moving slowly against each other—not pushing, just rocking back and forth in a languid almost-rhythm. House slowly got used to the oddness of the sensation--the low, pleasant burn deep in his belly--with someone who wasn't Stacy. Wilson's smell was different, sweat and cologne instead of Chanel No. 5; and he had planes where she had curves (not to mention that guy thing). But dammit if Wilson didn't fit just as well against him in his own way.

They could have stayed, simply holding and rocking, and not have done anything else. Wilson's breathing slowed, and as it was, House felt himself slide back towards sleep—until he felt soft lips murmuring something unintelligible against his neck, a wet tongue flicking out to lick the exquisitely sensitive skin just below his ear.

The low ember flared then, shooting through House, and the closeness suddenly wasn't enough. He arched with it, the pressure growing; he suddenly needed to be closer, to be rid of the layers of cloth between them. He needed skin. He drew back from the embrace, hurrying to push his pajama pants down over his hips, hissing as he jarred his leg; but even that wasn't enough, and he was kicking them right off, wriggling out as quick as he could.

He wondered briefly if he should shuck his T-shirt too, but the need for heat and skin, around and beneath him, was growing too strong. He reached over to pull at Wilson's waistband—only to find Wilson was shimmying out of his boxers too, and oh God, he could feel the heat rolling off Wilson's body like waves.

Blindly clutching, House rolled them over onto Wilson's back. Wilson, good man, was already flexing his knees in anticipation, spreading his legs apart so House could kneel and balance in between. If his leg was complaining at all, House didn't hear it—he simply lowered himself down, supporting himself on his elbows, aligning his pelvis against Wilson's.

And there it was, Wilson's dick, thick and hot and needy as his own, the already-damp tip straining for contact. They both gasped as they touched. House stared into Wilson's face. Their gazes met in the half-darkness—House couldn't tell anything from it, the light was so dim, except his eyes were so dark and wide with need, with want.

"House—" Wilson started, the puff of air brushing against House's face. He licked his lips, and in that gesture House had to taste, he had to claim, so he bent down.

Their lips met, rough and clumsy; House actually caught the corner of Wilson's mouth first. Undeterred, he simply slid over until their mouths fit full-on. Wilson let his mouth fall open in invitation, and House plunged his tongue inside. He gripped Wilson's shoulders, and Wilson's arms came up to encircle his back, his fingers running through House's sweat-damp hair at the back of his head.

Each kiss felt deeper, hungrier than the previous one; their tongues dueling, exploring, or both at once. They broke only for huge gasps of air to cool their burning lungs. House tugged on Wilson's lower lip gently with his teeth while Wilson nibbled at House's upper lip. Their chins bumped; House broke the kiss and began to trace a trail along Wilson's jaw, feeling the unaccustomed prick of stubble on his lips. Wilson groaned, and House grew dizzy with the sound, unable to suppress his own moan as their hips canted together.

Soon it was too hot and humid under the covers; only when the rush of cool air hit his backside did House realize Wilson had somehow flung the covers off. Then he felt fingers scrabbling around his waist, pulling at his shirt; House lifted off slightly to allow Wilson to ruck his shirt up. Wilson's fingers slid underneath the sweat-damp cotton, running over the ridges of muscle and bone in House's back, his palms sliding up and down his side and over his chest. House hissed with shock and pleasure as Wilson found his nipples, his thumbs brushing over the erect nubs. Wilson jutted his chin up to bare his throat, and House obliged, running his lips and tongue over his Adam's apple, working up and down the columns of pulsing arteries on either side.

He drew back again to watch Wilson writhing beneath him; his red lips kiss-swollen and his face flushed, his dark hair damp and plastered to his head, breath as ragged as his own. Then Wilson reached down to seize his buttocks, and House groaned helplessly as Wilson kneaded them with his fingers, thrusting up at the same time to pull him in tighter against him.

House shifted slightly to snake a hand between their bodies, to feel Wilson's cock, rock-hard from tip to base. He ran his fingers through Wilson's hair, down to fondle his balls; each movement also brushing against his own cock. The smell of their combined sweat and musk wafted up around them, dark and mossy. House leaned on one elbow to yank up Wilson's shirt, revealing skin and a fine spray of chest hair. He leaned his forehead against Wilson's chest for a moment, his lips touching flushed damp skin, hearing the wild thudding of his heart that was almost as loud as his own.

Pulling back, he stared at Wilson blindly. House was so fucking close, burning up with pleasure, that he could feel the pressure building at the base of his spine. Then Wilson's rhythm changed, his thrusts shimmying against his groin, and House knew instinctively that Wilson was about to come. Wilson stilled for a second, his fingers digging into House's ass and shoulders. "Jimmy," House whispered, rolling his hips, and that was it. House felt, rather than heard, the deep groans from the pit of Wilson's stomach, and warm stickiness flowed over his hand.

The next thing he knew, Wilson was pulling him down even tighter, grinding into his pelvis, and oh Christ if that wasn't exactly what he needed. House cursed and leaned his forehead on Wilson's collarbone, clutching his biceps, tasting salt and musk on Wilson's skin; and he thrust, each one hurling him further forward, until the pressure in his spine condensed and exploded.

He came down to find Wilson resting his forehead on House's shoulder. Both he and Wilson shivered in the cool, dry air; he reached blindly and found a corner of the blanket. They pulled it over both of them, and then House fell back; he rolled onto his side, utterly sated, pulling Wilson over with him. They both panted as their pulses slowed to normal; the endorphins were surging through his bloodstream, keeping his leg quiet for the time being. House was too blissed to talk or care about the stickiness between their bodies. He closed his eyes against the growing lightness in the room as sunrise approached, and quickly drifted off.

Some time later, when House awoke again, it was full daylight, his thigh was throbbing, and the other side of the bed was empty. The clock, this time, read eight twenty-three, and the apartment was dead quiet. He reached out, but while the scent of Wilson still lingered, the bedding was cool. Oddly, he felt bereft at the absence.

He stared at the fine network of cracks in the ceiling, unwilling to move even though his leg was demanding appeasement. He told himself he was glad Wilson had left; until he determined which category their morning tryst fell under, it was best that he avoided him. It would be OK once he'd processed it; after a little mutual awkwardness, they'd revert to their normal modus operandi in a day or two.

When he threw the blankets back, he wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell of sex wafting from beneath. He noted the lack of pants, and the film of dried semen on his stomach, with distaste. A shower, and change in bedding, was in order. He pulled himself up, wincing at the sudden surge of pain in his thigh, and reached for the Vicodin. He popped two automatically, and waited another few minutes for the drug to wrestle the noise back to a dull roar. He was already putting it behind him.

He heaved himself up and lurched to the bathroom sans cane. And it was then that he realized he wasn't alone in the apartment after all. Standing at the toilet, from the corner of his eye he saw Wilson, fully dressed but with a raw, naked expression on his face, haunting the doorway.

Fabulous.

"House?"

House reached over to flush the toilet and slowly turned to the sink to wash his hands. He concentrated on the rush of water in the sink, the squelching of soap as he rubbed it over his palms.

"House? I—I think we need to talk about this."

His stomach twisted at the soft desperation in Wilson's voice. He pulled a towel from the rack and wrapped it round his hips. He was not going to have this conversation half-naked; hell, he was not going to have this conversation, ever.

"Need some privacy here," House said, wincing at how flat it sounded. In the mirror, he could see Wilson's reflection reach up to rub its neck, then put its hands on its hips. He stared resolutely at the chrome taps on the sink, suddenly unable to meet Wilson's gaze.

"You're—we—we can't just brush this off and pretend it never happened! We—we had sex, House. You. Me. With each other!"

A shot of pain ricocheted through his leg, up to his brain, and he clenched the porcelain, his fingers blanching. The spasm passed, and he chanced to look up at the reflection; his gaze fell on Wilson's mouth, slightly open with puzzlement and concern. He shied away, suddenly embarrassed.

"I can't do this," House muttered to the taps. He blinked at the admission.

The air was still behind him for a long moment. "I didn't think so," Wilson said finally, and very softly.

When House looked up again, Wilson's reflection was gone.

"Wilson," he called, but his voice only echoed in the empty apartment.

He avoided Wilson the rest of the day, letting his mind mull over it subconsciously while he went over the latest case with the lackeys. He finally decided, on the bike ride home, that he was fine with it. It had been only a matter of circumstance. It wouldn't have happened had Wilson not slept in his bed. Easy as that. As long as the sofa was back home by this evening, things would go on as before. Though he thought he might not mind if he shared his bed with Wilson again.

As soon as he opened the front door to his apartment, he realized that something in the air had changed. He saw right away that his sofa was back, in the same position, almost gleaming, in better condition than before it had left. But the apartment also seemed emptier, somehow. It wasn't until House took a good second look around that he noticed Wilson's suitcases were missing.

The message light was blinking on the answering machine. "Your sofa's back. And I've found another place to stay," the tinny facsimile of Wilson's voice said. "I'm moving out this afternoon. It's all yours again."

At the beep, House swept the phone and answering machine off the table with his cane.