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“I know you’re in there. I can hear you caring.”
Wilson’s office door is locked, which is unusual. Even when discussing a fatal prognosis with the mother of a tumor-ridden six year old boy, his door stays unlocked. It’s why it’s so easy for House to interrupt with something he considers clearly more important than whatever Wilson’s job entails - House’s patients actually have a chance of living beyond the next 5 years, statistically a priority.
House heads back into his own office, instead using the rooftop access, determined to find out exactly what Wilson is deciding to hide from him. The blinds are shut, which can only mean he had predicted House would come looking sooner or later.
The door is unlocked and House pushes it open, catching Wilson off guard and making him jump.
“The door was locked,” House explains.
“Means I didn’t want to see anyone,” Wilson retorts.
House stares at the plate on Wilson’s desk, which is covered by freshly grinded nugs that Wilson pinches clumps of and layers it along a paper.
“High school reunion?” House asks, curious.
“It’s for a patient, she can’t roll.”
“You’re lying,” House tells him. Wilson stares suspiciously through the open door.
“Lock that door too,” he asks.
“Paranoia,” House explains. “Must be the good stuff.” He takes one of the joints Wilson’s already rolled and holds it up to smell it, savoring the scent. “You know, it’s times like these that I wished I had cancer.” he chucks the joint back down onto the desk.
“Maybe you can skip the cancer,” Wilson proposes.
“Are you offering to smoke with you? Either the weed has induced a psychotic break, or you’re way cooler than I thought.”
“If you’re going to insult me, I can take the offer back.” House chooses to stay silent and takes a seat, observing as Wilson rolls the paper up and down with shaky hands, failing horribly to form a tight cone around the bud. Wilson, now under pressure, can’t get a grip on the paper and the small part he had managed to tuck fell undone.
“Does offering a hand with rolling count as an insult, because this is just too painful to watch.”
Wilson flashes House a look - shut up before I kick you out - but House knows Wilson will give in eventually. It takes another couple attempts before he’s handing the plate across the desk to him, weed left scattered and the paper left mutilated.
“You’re so lucky I’m here.” Wilson rolls his eyes. House takes out a new paper from the pack, setting it onto the plate. The roach sits at the far end as he sprinkles the bud along, starting thin at the roach and growing larger towards the top. Pinching the sides together, he picks it up, supporting the middle with his left fingers and using the right to massage the paper along the roach. The weed tucks smoothly under the edge of the paper, and he uses the other hand to smooth out the top and lay it flat against the weed. He rolls the roach upwards into the paper, tucking the edge behind and following the motion with his other hand. Some weed falls out, as expected, but everything remains steady. He continues to roll up the paper until he reaches the glue strip, licking lightly across before the final roll, smoothing the glue strip down along the joint from the roach to the top.
Wilson watches, mesmerized by the process. House has formed a perfect cone, allowing extra room to add the rest of the weed into it. House holds the joint upright, begins to tap it lightly against the plate, allowing the bud to fall into the empty spaces. He uses the joint to scoop up the last of the weed, tapping it against the plate a final few times.
House then removes the flint from the lighter on the desk, to pack down the weed at the top of the joint before twisting the paper and flattening down the top.
“I didn’t expect you to do that so effortlessly,” Wilson says.
“I’m cooler than you think,” House slots the flint back into the clipper and hands Wilson the joint. “Are we going outside, or are you gonna sit there and stare all day?”
Wilson nods, still not fully processed what’s happened. “Yeah, I’m…wait what?” he asks when House heads towards the roof exit.
“You’re happy to roll the stuff in your office, but you can’t handle smoking on the roof? If they didn’t like it, they’d put a ‘no smoking’ sign out there.”
“There is a ‘no smoking’ sign out there. That’s the point.”
“The whole point of the sign is to stop kids and sick people from breathing in all the smoke, which doesn’t apply out there because it will just be us. No one else has access without either of us knowing. We’re fine. Stop being paranoid.” House reaches over and takes the joint and the lighter from Wilson, putting it in his mouth.
“Join me if you want,” he mumbles around it as he leaves the office.
House leans back against the divider wall, massaging his thigh to ease some of the discomfort from sitting for a little too long. Wilson has followed somewhat instantly, shutting the door tightly. Of course, he would be paranoid about second-hand smoke leaking into his office and haunting the lungs of every cancer patient he treats. Just another thing for him to feel guilty about, House reckons. No wonder he needs something to help him relax for once.
“How have we never smoked together before?” House asks whilst lighting the joint, finding an angle behind the wall where the wind can’t sabotage the flame. “You would never assume I didn’t smoke weed, because out of all the things you’ve seen me do, this is the equivalent of seeing a…child with a juice box.”
“Have you thought that, maybe, I just didn’t want to publicise the fact that I engage in delinquent behaviour?”
House scoffs. “Weed is not a…delinquent, what? No, that doesn’t fit,” he takes a long pull from the joint, inhaling and blowing the smoke directly into Wilson’s face. He recoils, shutting his eyes and waving the smoke away.
“This is why I didn’t tell you, because I knew you’d analyse why I didn’t tell you instead of just enjoying the moment.”
“The only reason you’d hide something like this from me is because the answer reveals more about your personal life than you’d care to admit.”
“House, don’t do this. Can we just enjoy-”
“You’re not hiding the act of smoking, you’re hiding why you’re doing it,” House tests, noticing the way Wilson’s eyes widen by a fraction, the slight tensing of his eyebrows, the way he slightly inhales when he was meant to exhale - he’s getting closer to the answer.
“Now the question becomes, what’s worth hiding more than the fact that you’re smoking illegal drugs?” he mocks, taking another pull, blowing the smoke away from Wilson, keeping his face visible.
“House,” Wilson seems tired, not angry. Which means he can continue his analysis without the risk of anything major occurring. Something private, more private than weed, but not something that would anger him if (when) House finds out.
House passes the joint, noticing the way Wilson closes his eyes while he takes a pull, the tense muscles in his face relaxing as he breathes out. He’s calm, confident, unfazed. He looks sure of himself. He would never admit it, but House likes seeing him this way. With all the shit Wilson puts up with, the man deserves to feel some level of peace once in a while. Without any worries.
“You’re not worried,” House breaks the silence, and Wilson sighs. “Which means you’ve got no reasons to be worried.”
“I am so glad we could establish that.”
“Smoking weed at work should give you a reason to worry. Unless being caught isn’t an issue for you, which would only be an issue if you were going to be punished. You can’t be punished for something if it’s obtained legally, so the only logical explanation is…” House looks up at the sky, thinking. “You’re being prescribed medical cannabis.”
“That’s an…interesting theory,” Wilson states. He takes a longer pull of the joint, blowing the smoke into House’s eyes as payback. House can see the sudden influx of heat in Wilson’s face, that feeling of shame having been caught with something embarrassing. Which makes no sense, because medical cannabis isn’t embarrassing.
“Why would you hide that?”
“So you get one answer, that answer isn’t good enough, so now you want… another answer to the first answer?” Wilson says. “You’re digging yourself into a hole here. There’s no mystery, no…logical reasoning, I just…didn’t tell you.”
“There’s always a reason. We just don’t know it yet,” he takes the joint back. “You’re embarrassed, I can tell.”
“I’m not embarrassed, what makes you think-?”
“Something you consider embarrassing. Secret, so can’t tell me about it. You’d tell me if you had cancer, I’d notice chronic pain. You wouldn’t need to hide chronic migraines, unless you were worried I’d make them worse intentionally,” House turns to him, watching.
“Gastrointestinal? Fairly embarrassing, no reason to hide that from me though. Which only really leaves psychiatric…”
It’s not cold, but the hair on Wilson’s arms is standing up. Slight redness flushing his face, discomfort around the neck of his shirt - the tugging at his collar gives it away. He’s scared.
“You’re being treated for depression?”
Wilson stays silent, one hand bracing the balcony, the other reaching out towards House.
“Pass the joint?”
“You are,” House takes a pull and passes. “Why would you keep this a secret?”
“Because, I don’t go around advertising my personal life. I don’t need the other doctors in my department passing judgements and worrying about the quality of my work after this diagnosis. I don’t need people questioning my judgement and asking every second of the day if I feel okay. The way I would be viewed if people found out, House, it wouldn’t be good.”
House nods. Any form of disability, mental or physical, anything considered ‘abnormal’ - he knows too well how people change when they’re around you, how you’re always isolated because you’re not ‘normal’. Being perceived as someone entirely different because of one stupid flaw, it hurts. All of this he can’t say, so he says, “Well, I’m sure you’re not the only depressed oncologist. I’d be surprised if there is even a happy one.”
“Thanks? I think,” Wilson raises his eyebrow, takes another pull and passes it back to House.
“Means you’re probably not alone. If that’s any consolation.” House smokes more of the joint, not realising that Wilson is staring at him. “What?”
“You’re…consoling me,” Wilson states. “Either the weed is giving you a psychotic break, or you’re…nicer than I thought.”
“You’re an idiot,” House retorts. “I’m not nice. Oncologists are all pathetically involved with their patients, they get too close and then when they die, they get depressed. It’s self-inflicted pain.”
“That sounds more like you,” Wilson steals the joint, getting the last few puffs before tossing it off the edge of the roof. “The next hit will cost you, so don’t come back without your wallet. The prescriptions are expensive.” He opens his office door, pausing to turn back.
“No one, you hear me - no one - can know about…this. Any of this.”
House nods. “Wouldn’t want everyone else getting their hands on the stash.” Wilson glares at him from across the roof, slowly making his way back into his office.
________
House’s high lasts roughly an hour before his leg reminds him to take more vicodin, disappointment flooding back and surprisingly the urge to smoke. Cigarettes help pass the time during vicodin abstinence, so logically the same would go for weed? Wilson is always complaining about how much vicodin he’s taking, he should be happy House is considering alternatives.
He’s talked himself into it before he realises, grabbing his cane and heading back towards the roof. Struggles over the wall slightly, his thigh protesting every slight stretch.
Wilson is alone in his office, thankfully. House barges in, Wilson this time not surprised by the sudden entrance.
“Why…are you back?” Wilson asks as House shuts the blinds, then locks the main door.
“Out of vicodin,” House states.
“So you want a scrip? And…you don’t want anyone to know?”
“No, I’m here to please you. I’ll need a scrip after for the knee pain, though.”
Wilson laughs. “You want more weed.”
“Just one more,” House pleads, putting on his best sad face.
“House, as much as I’d love to dedicate the next half an hour of my day fuelling your drug needs, I do actually have work to be doing. I know you’re unfamiliar with that concept.”
“I’m in pain,” he says. “It helps.”
“You’re the pain,” Wilson retorts. “And that can be solved by you leaving.”
House scoffs, staring at the floor and tapping his cane, thinking. Wilson continues pretending to work.
“I’ll make it worth your while,” he breaks the silence with a joke.
“Did you bring your wallet?” Wilson puts his pen down and stares up at him.
“No.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to,” Wilson shoots back. House doesn’t respond immediately, somehow his brain has short circuited trying to decode this deflection.
“You’re bargaining weed for sex? Is this some new method of recruiting buyers for your drug empire?
“Hey, if your offer wasn’t serious, you can leave.”
House stares at him.
“You’re serious?”
“Or you could give me the twenty bucks. Either way, this isn’t a charity.” The weed really does seem to be helping Wilson; his anxiety levels are considerably lower, confidence is increased, he seems less distracted.
“I’m insulted you think I’m only worth twenty bucks,” House can only come up with jokes, seemingly unable to connect words in a serious order. There isn’t much else to say.
“You can always prove me wrong,” Wilson gestures towards House then back at himself. House pushes away the confusion, although the embarrassment seeps through and flushes heat throughout his body and he’s walking around the desk to stand in front of Wilson and he realises it’s not embarrassment, it’s arousal.
“Looks like you do want it,” Wilson notes.
“What can I say, I’m that easy,” House lowers himself down to his knees, bracing against Wilson’s chair. Stretching his thigh like this sends stabbing pains through his leg, though putting most of his weight onto his left leg makes it more bearable. Wilson has fully turned his chair around, his crotch directly in line with House’s face.
“Your leg gonna be fine?” he asks as House moves to undo Wilson’s belt.
“Only if you shut up about it,” House retorts, pulling Wilson’s trousers down. He shifts his hips to help, House noticing the way his face flushes once House has a clear view of the outline of his erection. House is starting to think Wilson is just embarrassed about being vulnerable around him. In his defence, House doesn’t make it easy.
“You’re too calm,” House studies Wilson, watching him roll his eyes and scoff. “It’s not normal for you.”
“You’re analysing instead of focusing,” Wilson says as House pulls down his boxers, letting them fall below his knees. “You really can’t shut up.”
“I’m compensating for the time I’m about to spend in silence,” House spits in his hand and wraps it around Wilson’s dick. He strokes up to the tip and spreads the precum around, using it as extra lubrication when he brings his fist back down.
Wilson’s head falls back, his breathing becoming the slightest bit heavier. House keeps the motion going, getting Wilson worked up before he properly starts. He reduces the speed and begins jerking slowly from base to half way, allowing room for him to lean forward and suck the tip of his erection into his mouth.
Wilson groans louder, pressing his hand over his mouth which at this point did nothing to stifle the noise. House works slowly, slightly squeezing with his hand while he takes more of Wilson in his mouth. Groans coming from above give House the signal that he’s doing good, and he could still do better.
He leans forward, putting himself into a better position to take all of Wilson’s dick. The tip hits the back of his throat and he holds back a gag, instead making an obscene noise that Wilson clearly finds arousing. His hand flies to the back of House’s head, the pressure forcing House to stay like this. His moans are growing louder and House is almost certain someone will hear.
“You’re willing to sell your body for drugs,” Wilson breathing is noticeably heavier now. “You’re pathetic.”
House sucks hard, lifting his head up and flattening his tongue to apply pressure all the way from bottom to top. He gives some attention to the tip before Wilson’s hand is pushing him back down again. House chokes more this time, caught unaware, which only makes Wilson moan louder. He slides his hand up Wilson’s thigh, rubbing softly before moving back down and gripping behind his knee. Wilson’s breathing becomes more erratic, House can feel how hard he is against his throat. He only just remembers how hard he is himself, using his spare hand to press against his dick to get some relief.
“House…” Wilson grips House’s hair tighter. It signals to him that Wilson wants more, but House is pretty content with teasing him for a while longer. He pushes his head back against Wilson’s hand, not allowing him control anymore. He abandons his own erection to grasp Wilson’s again, keeping a slow pace whilst sucking and licking around the tip. Wilson throws his head back again, arm covering his face.
House gets him worked up with this combination of mouth and hand, eventually slowing down and waiting for Wilson’s breathing to even out before taking him fully in his throat. He’s taken by surprise, a moan slipping out from under his hand despite how tightly he presses it down.
House works faster. Hand on Wilson’s leg sliding up his thigh and squeezing. Wilson brings his hand back to House’s head and forces it down, House taking his erection further than he thought he could cope with. He feels hot pressure colliding with the wall of his throat. His own erection strains against his jeans, burning heat in his abdomen spurring him on.
“Fuck, I’m..House, I’m gonna…”
House holds the same pace as long as possible, giving Wilson the chance to finally finish. He hears his relief before he feels it, poorly muffled moans filling his ears as cum fills his mouth. He sucks hard, pulling the last of it from Wilson’s twitching dick and relaxing the grip on his thigh.
House swallows around Wilson’s dick, overstimulating him slightly before pulling slowly off. The gasps are more restrained as he lays back in bliss, House now able to fully look at him as he does.
“You are a slut,” House notes, noting the way his face is fully flushed, his shirt creased, trousers half down with his semi-hard dick hanging out.
“Hey,” Wilson says slightly out of breath. “You’re the one on your knees.” House braces the desk as he stands, the stabbing pain in his thigh instantly returning once he stretches it out fully. It reminds him of the whole reason he came here in the first place. He tries to adjust himself as best as possible.
“This,” he reaches to the desk and takes the baggie of weed and pockets it. “Is mine now. I earned it.” House takes his cane and limps back to the fire exit, turning in the doorway.
“By the way, the next hit will cost you. Don’t forget your wallet.” he smiles fakely, leaving Wilson to clean himself up.