It's late and he's tired but he takes his time getting ready for bed. Brushing his teeth he studies his face in the bathroom mirror. The dark rings around his eyes are starting to fade. Maybe Cuddy's right. It is time he went back to work; he's finally looking better that the majority of his patients.

Seeing patients again fills him equally with excitement and trepidation. Without his job he'll never be able to move on. Failure is a real possibility though. No it's not, his inner voice mocks loudly. House would never let that happen. The growing stack of oncology journals in the living room, 'borrowed' from the hospital, are testament to that.

He holds that thought close as he heads for the bedroom. The simple everyday events that used to send his mind reeling are becoming rarer and further apart. One day – hopefully – he'll make it through a whole day without that happening. In the meantime he's learning to deal.

Stripping off his t-shirt and boxers, he takes a deep breath and tells himself to relax. At least he no longer wakes up in the morning confused about where he is. The bed he's getting into now is familiar; dark bed linen, masculine, with a scent of soap and musk.

"You lied to Cuddy."

Shuffling backwards across the bed, he allows a pair of arms to encircle him. He's pulled in tight, the warmth of skin against skin enveloping him from the tip of his spine to his toes. "No I didn't," he breathes softly, shivering as House's lips touch his ear.

"Liar."

There's a hint of nervousness behind House's taunt. He rolls over sideways, making eye contact in the weak half-light. Reaching out he wraps his arms around House's waist, returning his bear-like grip. He only holds it for a brief second, trying to convey everything he's feeling, but he can already tell House is starting to relax. In public the other man hates being touched. In private things are much more different, although it's still on House's terms.

"It's only been a few days," he mumbles, when House sighs loudly in his ear. The puff of warm air causes a shiver that shoots straight down his spine. He curls his fingers in reaction, sucking in a breath as the blood rushes to his balls.

"A week," House shoots back, leaning down to nip at his shoulder blade.

Clamping his lips tight he tries not to groan in reaction. The nip's only light, barely ghosting; it's anticipation that's making him squirm. They've only done this a few times but already he's addicted. House of course already has an advantage; he's a year ahead in this relationship. He's always prided himself on being a quick learner though; the powers of persuasion he's developed over the years are equally useful in bed.

"Three days," he insists, twisting away before House can nip him again. "That's not even close to a week."

"Five days." House rolls over on his back, tucking one hand behind his head. The move is languid. Powerful. He feels his penis twitch in response.

"I thought I was the one with brain damage. Five days is not a week."

"Ha. So it's not three days."

"It's three days." He knows what House is getting at but he's not counting the clumsy make-out session they'd had on the couch five days ago. Too nervous to enjoy it, he'd headed for the bathroom as soon as he'd got a chance.

"Liar, liar, pants on fire…"

"House." The admonishment comes out as an embarrassing squeak. House is tweaking his nipple between his forefinger and thumb.

"Wilson." House repeats his name, mocking. Lips turned up in a faint smile, in the half-light he can see that his blue eyes are sparkling with laughter. It's like an aphrodisiac and instinctively he licks his lips.

A strong hand cups his neck, pulling him in for an open mouthed kiss. They bump noses then readjust. House's fingers start kneading a particularly sensitive spot on the back on his neck. Curving his spine he groans appreciatively. This is perfect, he thinks, as he reaches out to stroke House's hip. Warmth and touch and the smell of sex. He's loved this man for as long as he can remember. The reality's not romantic. He'd never thought it would be. But it's never boring.

And the sex is great.

Suddenly the kneading stops. This time when he groans it's from frustration. Blinking, he focuses. Hovering just inches in front of his face, House is frowning. "What?"

"You're thinking." It's an accusation, not a question.

"No I'm not." He swallows guiltily. House, as always, is full of contradictions. He'd wanted him to think, to make a decision for himself. Now it's made, he's worried he'll think himself back out of it again. He understands, empathizes, but it's something he can't help; sometimes his brain still runs off in weird directions and there's nothing he can do to make it stop. Leaning forward, he reassures House the only way he knows how.

When he comes back up for air a few minutes later, House's pupils are dilated, his lips swollen and red. No more thinking, he agrees silently, as House's body responds to his touch.

He's made his decision and he's keeping to it. He knows it's the right one.

FINISH