One-shot. Probably. No connection with the CollarRedux universe. No connection with reality. I do not own House and Wilson and I do not own a closet.

"I'd like to do something," Wilson says.

House looks up from the magazine he's reading, interested and feeling a spark of arousal. Some of their best evenings have begun when Wilson says *I'd like to do something* in that tone of voice.

Wilsom's standing with his hands on his hips, his feet set wide, and he's smiling. House's lips part in a brief, fascinated grin: this looks good.

"Okay," he says. "What?"

"I'd like to put you in the closet," Wilson says.

House laughs, thinking it's a joke. Wilson doesn't laugh. "We're already in the closet," House says. No one at PPTH knows about their relationship - well, no one knows about the fucking, or the sucking, and certainly not the bondage, or the spanking, or Wilson's large collection of whips, manacles, and gags.

"I'd like to put you in the closet," Wilson says, and gestures with his head to make quite clear which closet he means: the one out in the hall. It's certainly big enough for a grown man, more or less -

"I won't be able to stand up," House says. The ceiling in the closet is just under six feet.

"That's okay," Wilson says: "you'll be sitting on the floor."

House looks at him. Wilson means it. He wants to do this. It doesn't excite House at all. But from the way Wilson is standing - most of all, from the bulge in his groin - it's going to be good for Wilson. Which is, ultimately, good for House.

"Sure," House says. He pushes himself to his feet. "How do you want to do this?"

Wilson takes his cane away - which is how all their best scenes begin - and holds his arm, escorting him to the hall. House is taller and stronger than Wilson: they both know that House's submission to Wilson is voluntary, but Wilson always enjoys the role play of force.

Wilson opens the closet door. "Get in there," he says.

House shrugs. It's just a closet, half-full of winter coats and the vacuum cleaner and junk. Wilson has moved stuff so that there is, just, space enough to sit down with his back against the rear wall. House sits. He looks up at Wilson.

"Give me your hands," Wilson says, and expertly slides on the cuffs: medical restraints, comfortable and very secure. Wilson uses them when he really wants House not to be able to move, not just for bondage, but to enforce his will. Wilson puts one of House's hands up against the wall and fastens it to something - there's a snap.

"Wait," House says, but Wilson already has his other hand against the other wall, and the same snap.

Wilson looks at him. There's a moment's pause. House could use the safeword. Some part of him wants to, right now - he's sitting on his ass in a chilly cupboard and his wrists are fastened to the wall either side, this doesn't feel like a fun way of spending the evening.

But House hates using the safeword. It always feels like a defeat. He hasn't been able to do what Wilson wanted him to do. Wilson is always nice to him after House safewords - but he always looks so disappointed, and House always feels like a complete jerk. Wilson's said several times that House can be a great sub when he wants to be - high pain threshold, real endurance and stubbornness and a will to please - and getting that approval from Wilson, that verbal commendation, is something House treasures.

"How long?" House asks.

Wilson smiles. He leans in and kisses House, on the mouth, his tongue thrusting in. "For as long as I want," he says. "Don't worry about it. You'll be quite safe in here."

When Wilson closes the door, it's dark. House closes his eyes. He remembers from childhood that if he closes his eyes and counts a thousand, when he opens them again he'll be able to see what ambient light there is. He's afraid there won't be much.

The closet smells of dry cloth and dust and cleaning products - there's a chemical scent of lemon, underlying that a tang of bleach. The restraints are comfortable. House can relax his arms and let them support him. The wall is hard against his shoulders. The floor is hard against his butt.

He finishes counting a thousand and opens his eyes. He can see a little light from under the door, and a tiny glow from his wristwatch - he can't see the time, but he can see where the light is coming from.

This isn't a turn-on. Maybe it is for Wilson, but it's not doing anything for House. It's boring and it's uncomfortable. It's lonely.

He thinks about calling out. He doesn't do it.

House usually likes it when Wilson puts him in bondage, because it means Wilson's uninterrupted attention. Usually fairly painful attention, but focussed.

Wilson likes to hurt him.

Alone in the dark, House grins. Wilson is such a good guy. House is such a jerk. But once they're home, Wilson pulls House's pants down and puts him over his knee and spanks him. Paddles him. Wilson says he does it because House needs the discipline, but Wilson can't hide that although when he does the over-the-knee discipline, he's always stern and controlled and he thrashes House for specific acts of jerkishness, being rude, being difficult, interrupting Wilson, stealing his food - well, Wilson's the one with the big hard-on at the end of every discipline session. Which House usually has to take care of. After all, it's his fault, Wilson says: his squirms and whimpers are what turn Wilson on.

That's standard. That's usual. House likes it. It's a structure to his day, to know that - unless Wilson has a girlfriend or a wife, in which case House's crimes get saved up for special occasions - at the end of the day, he'll get thrashed for everything bad he's done, and then he'll have to get Wilson off, and then - for being good about his punishment - Wilson will cuddle him.

House sucks in a breath. He likes that. He'd like to be there, right now, at the end of whatever this time in the closet is supposed to teach him, curled up on the sofa with his butt hurting and his mouth full of Wilson's come and Wilson's arms round him, with his face pushed into Wilson's shirt, smelling Wilson.

It's cold in the cupboard, and it doesn't smell of Wilson.

They do different things if Wilson has time.

Wilson likes to put him in bondage face down on his bed, beat him till he cries, and fuck him till he screams.

Alone in the dark House can admit that: Wilson can hurt him till he actually cries. And House likes it. He likes the loose, warm feeling of being hurt so much by someone who loves him and cares for him. He doesn't like it at the time - every time, just before he gets to the point where he's crying - he's usually screaming curses at Wilson.

Maybe Wilson should gag him more often.

He isn't gagged right now. He could yell. He could yell the safeword, and make Wilson come running and let him out. It's chilly and it's dark and it's lonely. House isn't sure how long it's been, but it wouldn't make any difference if he knew, because as long as I want could be anything from half an hour to all evening. All night, even. Wilson's left him in bondage all night before. Though before, House was trussed up on the bed, and Wilson was asleep next to him. He'd been helpless as a soft toy, but Wilson had snuggled him.

Maybe Wilson will take him to bed after this and cuddle him. He could gag House if he wanted: maybe he will do that.

Wilson likes it when House cries. House tugs at the restraints. They're firmly attached to the wall.

"Wilson?" House says out loud. Not very loudly. He wonders if Wilson is outside in the hall, if he'll hear House talking in the closet.

Wilson doesn't fuck House every night. He claims a suck every time he disciplines House, which is good, because House likes it when Wilson grabs on to his head and pulls him down on his dick and fills his mouth and throat. And he will sit and hold House on the sofa, for hours even, petting him and kissing him. Sometimes a little smack in the middle of the petting, but just because he likes the way House's eyes go wide and House jolts with surprise. Wilson tells him he likes the look of House surprised.

House wonders if he looked surprised enough to please Wilson when Wilson put him in the closet.

"Wilson?" House calls again. Not too loudly. If Wilson is standing in the hall, he might hear. He might think House wanted something, and open the door and ask. House could ask for a drink of water. Or a piss. He doesn't quite need to piss - yet - and anyway he's good at holding it. All he really wants, right now, is light and to see Wilson's face.

If he calls too loudly, if Wilson is off in the sitting room or the kitchen, and Wilson hears and thinks something's wrong, even if House doesn't use the safeword, Wilson will be disappointed.

Wilson wants House in the closet. In restraints, in the closet, in the dark. He doesn't want House to safeword out - he never likes it when House uses the safeword. He won't.

Maybe Wilson is waiting for House to beg.

Wilson likes it when House begs, and yet it's something House can't bear to give him very often. He can cry wordlessly when Wilson hurts him enough, and he can scream when Wilson fucks him, but using words - actually begging out loud - that's very difficult. It makes Wilson happy, though. And it would get him out of the closet.

"Wilson?" House swallows. He tries to frame the words. "Let me out?"

The closet is dark and cold and House's ass hurts. His leg doesn't hurt yet, it's got a kind of ache that says if the pain wasn't cushioned by a Vicodin and a glass of bourbon, it would be hurting. But it's not, yet, and Wilson saw him take the Vicodin and drink the bourbon and Wilson knows how long that cushion lasts. Wilson won't leave him in here if he starts screaming because his leg hurts.

Wilson wouldn't do that to him. House knows he wouldn't.

"Wilson, please let me out," House says, quite quietly. Maybe he can say it a bit louder in a little while.

The closet is dark. House tilts his head back, against the wall, and his face is full of cloth - his winter coat. He rubs his face against it, wishing it was Wilson's coat. Wishing the closet smelt more like Wilson. The closet isn't warm but House is fully clothed, it's fine, he can't catch cold like this, it's fine.

"Please let me out," House says experimentally. He doesn't think it sounds very convincing. If Wilson wants him to beg, he should probably put a bit more passion into it. He wants this to please Wilson. Otherwise he's just been cold and bored and lonely for nothing. If he can please Wilson, it's not all for nothing.

"Please," House says. His tongue catches on the word. "Please, Wilson, let me out."

"Please," House says again. The closet is dark and cold and lonely and his ass hurts. He tugs at the restraints. Maybe he ought to try being quiet for a while.

So he tries that for a while. It's still dark and still cold and still lonely. He's thinking about Wilson sprawled out comfortably on the sofa, watching TV, probably with a beer and a sandwich. House wants to be there with him. He'd sit on the floor by the sofa and be grateful. Though he'd like to be on the sofa, cuddled up with Wilson, feeling Wilson's hands on him.

Once when Wilson was mad he put House over the back of the sofa, and made him stay there, face down, his hands buried in sofa-cushions, as Wilson went in and out of the kitchen and the bathroom, getting ready for bed. He pulled House's pants down and whipped him when he stopped being mad: he told House he didn't want to whip him when he was angry.

Being whipped hurts. House wishes Wilson was hurting him now.

Maybe Wilson is mad at him. Maybe he wants House out of the way. House tips his head forward and stares down at the shadows of his body. He doesn't think he's done anything lately to make Wilson really mad at him, but who knows for sure?

"Please, Wilson," House says. His voice is shaking. "Please, Wilson, let me out. I'm sorry."

There's no answer. The closet is awfully quiet. House tugs at the restraints again. "Please," he says. "Please, Wilson, I'm sorry."

But he doesn't say it very loudly, because he's afraid Wilson will get really mad if he has to let House out before he wants to.

"Sorry," he says again. "Please. Sorry. Please, Wilson. Wilson." He's shaking. "Please. Sorry."

When the door opens, the light seems blinding. House blinks and looks up at Wilson.

Wilson is unfastening the restraints. "Come on," he says. "Let's get you out of there." He helps House move. House clutches at him. Wilson feels so good. Warm. "Sorry," House says. He needs Wilson to know he means it. "Sorry. Please."

"Okay," Wilson says. He doesn't sound angry. He helps House down the hall. He lets House piss, and takes him into the bedroom. House's hands keep trying to steal touches of Wilson. "Sorry," he says. He can't help it.

Wilson strips House and puts him on the bed. He pulls a cover over House, and gives him two Vicodin and a glass of water. House steals a look at the clock. It's nearly eleven. Wilson left him in the closet for three hours.

Wilson gets into bed with him. He's going to stay the night. House realises that means he could have left House in the closet for longer. He let House out.

"Thank you," House says.

Wilson's arms go round him. He nuzzles the back of House's neck. He pulls House in against him, spooning him. "You're good," he says. He isn't hard. Maybe he jerked off while House was in the closet.

"I love you," House says, because it's important Wilson knows that. He feels Wilson nod.

"You know why I did that to you?" Wilson asks.

All House's thinking pauses. He doesn't know what he did that got Wilson that mad. He's just grateful Wilson't isn't mad at him any more.

"Sorry," House says, hoping this is the right thing to say.

"Everything I do to you is something you enjoy," Wilson says. "Everything I do is for both of us."

House wonders if this means he was supposed to enjoy the closet. If Wilson will be mad again when House says he didn't. Maybe he can persuade Wilson he did. A little.

"But when I put you in the closet," Wilson says, "you didn't enjoy it."

"Sorry," House apologizes again.

Wilson's arms tighten round him. "No, it's okay," he says. "I liked having you in there. I like knowing you're mine, and when you're safe in there, I know I've got you. I thought about you all evening, knowing I had you like that. It was great." He sounds pleased and satisfied. "And it was just for me. I like that." He kisses the back of House's neck. "I'll want to do it again."

"You're not mad at me?" House asks.

"No," Wilson says.

"Good," House says. He stares into the comfortable warm dark of the bedroom. "I don't think I'm ever going to like you doing that to me."

Wilson's hand pets his stomach. "That's not important," he says sleepily. "You'll do it for me, won't you?"

House doesn't answer. But he doesn't have to. Wilson knows the only possible answer is yes.

-----

The idea just came to me (when I was reading Alex51324's Teddy House story on livejournal, Chapter 16, if you MUST know) and I thought, huh, in what kind of sick relationship would Wilson do that to House when House didn't enjoy it? Well... then I had to write the story where they HAVE that kind of relationship.