Christmas was a rather cold affair this year. It had started earlier than usual, temperatures dropping quickly, roads icing over, and so the emergency rooms were filled with the usual patients: broken bones, sprained wrists and ankles, concussions and the like. The clinic was also rapidly filling with those who didn’t require emergency treatment. Some had colds, others had undefined allergic reactions. One special case had been a man who had stuck a table to his head with incredibly powerful superglue. A friend had taken an electric saw to the table and the guy had come in with a dinner plate-sized piece of two-inch hardwood on his forehead.

With Christmas approaching, the even stranger cases trickled in. Especially those involving Christmas decoration in bodily orifices, all kinds of sharp objects stuck somewhere painful, and a couple who had thought that playing with wax was fun and had resulted in him losing all his hair somewhere down south and painful. Sometimes people had strange ideas about fun, though they got creative.

The nurses had decorated a medium-sized Christmas tree in the Lobby with some of the children that had to stay for a longer time. Another tree was in the baby station, another in oncology.

Dr. James Wilson was reading the notes the nurse had made in the file about the clinic patient in exam room 1 as he entered that exam room. Male, in his mid-twenties, apparently severely congested, pale, feverish, complaining of tremors. Another cold, he mused.

It was three more days till Christmas and he would, as he always did, work until after Christmas. It gave the fathers and mothers among his peers a chance to be with their kids when the presents were unwrapped. Wilson didn’t celebrate Christmas and had always tried to avoid the family moments with his wives. Julie hadn’t had all that much of a problem, though she had complained about him missing out on her parties.

House wasn’t the party type and both men had spent most Christmas evenings or days in the clinic, then gone over to House’s place for take-out and a few companionable hours together. With both men now living together, nothing much had changed. Wilson still worked on Christmas, House was still there until his shift was over, and they still went out for take-out food and carried it home. Only now Wilson didn't get up at some time and leave. He also didn't just crash at House's place after too much to drink either. He lived there now.

Wilson smiled a little to himself, remembering House’s idea for this year’s ‘menu’. It was cholesterol heaven to the nth degree, but he didn’t care.

He entered the exam room, a greeting on his lips. The greeting tapered off as the patient shot up from going through one of the medical cabinets, a caught look in his eyes.

Wide, dilated eyes in a pale face. He was now staring at Wilson like a caught rabbit in a trap. The clothes the man wore were a little run-down, but with fashion copying the street people look, one could never tell. Washed out and faded and even stained was ‘in’.

"What are you doing?" Wilson snapped.

Later, he would think about this moment and wonder why he hadn't reacted faster, why he hadn't just fled out of the room and called security. Because he had seen the expression in those feverish eyes. He had seen the hunger and the determination.

Instead he was rooted to the spot long enough that his reaction to the man's action was rather belated.
The stranger was in his face within a matter of seconds. Wild eyes roamed over the oncologist's face and his teeth were bared in a snarl. Wilson felt a shiver of emotions, not his own, but they were diluted.

"Where are the drugs?"

Wilson shook his head. "Not here."

Part of him tried to Soothe the obvious addict, but instead of backing off, calming down, nothing happened. At all. Well, except that strong hands fisted into his lab coat and he was pushed back hard against the medical cabinet, the unyielding counter and drawer bruising him. Wilson could feel more slithers of the fluctuating emotions of the other man, but nothing that would destroy his shields. It was one of those strange moments in his empathic life where he had no clue why this wildness didn’t break him, didn’t make him scream in pain because of the intense emotions.

"You have drugs! I know you do! I want them, doc!"

"They are not here! We don't keep drugs in the exam rooms!"

That was not the whole truth. Some drugs were here, but not what this guy was looking for. No strong opiates or narcotics. Wilson was still trying to will the man to relax, but there was no counter-acting the rush of whatever was in the stranger's system.

The man was panting, the crazed look increasing. Suddenly he flung Wilson to the side where the oncologist hit the examination table, winding him briefly. Instead of using this moment to flee, the attacker lashed out once more, his fury about not finding what he wanted unleashing on the hapless doctor. Wilson was caught in the head first, then in the shoulder and he crashed down hard. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but it only made it worse. James tried to stand, but ended up falling back to the floor as everything spun around him in a crazy dance. The only thing he could do was crawl backward away from the man who kept advancing on him.

"Where are they? Where do you keep them?"

Spittle was flying. Eyes rolled. The man was breathing harder now.

"I want the drugs!"

"There are none," Wilson tried, but whatever the guy was on, it worked against his natural soothing powers.

A foot kicked him viciously and he cried out.

"I want the drugs!" the man screamed and started to tear out drawers.

Medical equipment went flying and suddenly he gave a delighted croon, brandishing syringes.

Wilson blinked against the black dots he was seeing, against the pain. His shields were still there, or his freaky powers just didn’t catch on to the wild emotions of his attacker. Whatever, he thought fuzzily. He was just glad the emotional overload wasn’t added to the physical pain. Everything hurt and he couldn't really catch a clear thought. He turned his head a little, but it was his final mistake. The last thing he saw was a boot coming for him, then nothing at all.

* * *

House had been on his way to the clinic, looking for Wilson. After his latest case he needed some friendly company. Wilson was good for sympathy and friendliness, and while House didn’t like to hang around the clinic a lot – someone might think he wanted to take a case or two of sniffle nose and ice patch ouchies – this was where he would find his best friend and lover.

Evading the cheery nurses, one actually wearing a Santa's hat, he grimaced at the garishly bright tree, the Christmas carols coming from a small radio, and weaved through the patients and loving relatives. He was just about to haunt every exam room to pester the oncologist when he heard a loud crashing sound, followed by something heavy hitting the ground. Patients and nurses stopped, confused, looking for the source of the noise. House was nearly run over by an unwashed individual fleeing from exam room 1, the one he had been heading for.

Stumbling to one side, he cursed, but the man didn't even stop. He ran like all the hounds of hell were after him. People jumped out of his way and one nurse was pushed by him. She shouted something.

House frowned.

The frown deepened when he discovered something the runner had lost. It looked suspiciously like a syringe…

"What the heck…?"

He hobbled into the exam room and found total chaos. All cabinets were wide open, the drawers pulled out, supplies everywhere.

And amidst the chaos lay Wilson.

"Nurse!" House bellowed at the top of his lungs.

He was around the examination table within seconds, kneeling next to the prone man in the white coat. There was blood on the white material and it was coming from a long, deep gash at Wilson's temple. It was bleeding all over his face and neck, soaking into his clothes.

"NURSE!" House yelled again, fingers seeking and finding a pulse.

One of the nurses was suddenly there, looking shocked, but to her credit she wasn't asking stupid questions.

"Call security. Someone stole medical supplies," House snapped. "And get me some bandages from… somewhere!" He gestured with one hand at the chaos.

There were more people now, another doctor who turned out to be Chase, and there was a flock of onlookers, who were shooed away by security.

House snapped on a pair of gloves the nurse gave him and ran careful fingers over Wilson's neck, worried by the unresponsiveness of his best friend. The Diagnostic was flaring into action, knowing this particular individual better than anyone else. He detected the concussion, the pulsing energy lines of pain, the eddies of a rising nausea. He felt the slivers of disorientation and he Diagnosed the absence of skull fracture or any more serious problems. Still, Wilson had been hit hard and he was bruising badly.

He murmured his diagnosis under his breath, just loud enough for Chase to hear. The man was their ally and House, despite all his mutterings to the contrary, had learned to trust the Australian. When he probed the wound, Wilson moaned softly, instinctively trying to move away.

"Jimmy?"

There was movement behind the closed eyes.

"Jimmy, up and at 'em! Open those puppy eyes. Come on," he coaxed.

Chase was busy tearing apart packages and then pressed a sterile bandage against the head wound. Wilson groaned, eyes cracking open.

"That's it," House lauded. "Can you hear me?"

"House?" was the slurred answer.

"Yep."

House took a pen light and shone it into the dark brown eyes. Wilson groaned in pain and squeezed his eyes shut, but not before House had been able to check pupil sizes.

Someone had brought a stretcher and two male nurses were there, ready to lift the injured man. House let them, getting to his feet with slight difficulty because of the cramped space. Wilson was pale and the blood on his skin from the headwound left him looking garish. Chase was there again, fussing over the injury, asking Wilson questions as House stepped completely back, just watching. His eyes narrowed as he took in the devastation and he recalled the man running away.

Drug addict? Junkie?

He didn't care. For now his attention came back to his lover and he followed the stretcher as it was wheeled away.

“House?”

He gritted his teeth and clenched his hand around his cane. Cuddy was walking quickly toward him, eyes flickering over the scene of the crime. She looked pale, shocked, and more than just a little flustered.

“Not now,” he snarled.

“Now,” she contradicted. “What happened?”

“Ask your paid bloodhounds,” he retorted, trying to follow the stretcher that was weaving through the onlookers.

Cuddy was on his heals and when she caught sight of the blood-covered Wilson, she sucked in a breath.

“What happened?” she repeated.

“Possible drug addict,” House ground out. “Got to Wilson. I don’t know more.”

Chase had pulled the curtain shut around the man he was treating, orders flying around, nurses hurrying with gauze pads, needles and IV drips. House ignored Cuddy and pushed the curtain aside with his cane, walking inside.

She didn’t follow him.

* * *


Since no one knew that Dr. Gregory House was a paranormal called a Diagnostic, Wilson was wheeled off for tests. All came back with the same results House had known already: no skull fracture, but a mild concussion, lacerations, contusions along his ribs, and bruising. No broken or fractured ribs. The bruises were enough.
Security had caught the attacker on his way out. He had screamed and kicked and tried to bite the men holding him, cursing and spitting at them. Cuddy had personally called the police and they came in no five minutes later, arresting him, getting statements.

In that time Wilson was being treated for his injuries and House wasn't moving away from watching it all from a corner of the room. If he had been an empath, he would be scanning. But he wasn't. He was a Diagnostic and currently his abilities served him well on determining how bad his lover was off. It was easy. Really easy. He knew James Wilson inside out, in various ways. He didn't need hours of close contact to catch a small whiff of what might be wrong. He didn't need to socialize. He had over twelve years of experience, of friendship, of knowing. Then there were the three years of being lovers. Very intimate knowledge there. On top of that came months of being online again.

House said nothing, nothing at all. He watched and he scanned and he grimly kept his vigil. The head wound was stitched, the ribs lightly bandaged to help with the pain, and the IV was dripping steadily into a vein. Energy lines knotted around the injuries, even around the old ones, and House longed to smooth them. He couldn't, though. He just watched how the medication did its magic all on its own.

Chase shot him a brief look as if testing the Diagnostic, as if testing himself that nothing had passed him by, and at House's almost imperceptible nod he relaxed a little.

"He should stay overnight," the Australian advised.

"I'm a doctor, too, Dr. Chase. I can keep an eye on him," House only said gruffly.

Again those intense eyes met his, then Chase nodded once more and signed something on the chart. He handed the chart to the nurse.

"You know the drill."

"Yes, Sir, I do." House smirked and limped over to his dazed, tired looking lover. "Hey, Jimmy."

"Hey." The voice sounded thick, heavy.

"You up for the trip home or you wanna spend some more quality time in here?"

"Home sounds good."

"When the IV drip is through," Chase interrupted with a stern voice.

Wilson smiled weakly and House smirked.

"Listen to the nice doctor, Jimmy."

Chase checked the drip, then adjusted it. "Another hour. There's some paperwork I need to do."

House watched him go, then closed the blinds to give them some privacy. Wilson looked tired, the brown eyes a little blurry. There were bruises forming on his face, one cheek swollen and colorful, the headwound looking immense with the white bandage. Again he was scanning and he found the swirls of a headache creeping up.

"Jimmy?"

"Hm?"

House touched his lover's hand and felt a weak twitch, Wilson trying to curl his fingers around it. He didn't need to ask how James felt. He could see it. And his worry was rising more and more.

"I'll go and sign whatever Chase is coming up with. And there's Cuddy to take care of."

"'kay…"

He squeezed the hand again.
 
 

A little over an hour later, Chase was with them again. House had fended off Cameron, who had offered help and was as concerned as she was about any hurt puppy. Foreman had simply asked about Wilson like any colleague would, but there wasn't the heart-warming, tear-rendering whine in his voice that Cameron managed so well.

Chase had run a few more tests and everything looked good, though the Australian still wasn't happy about House insisting that Wilson would go home. He was also more than unhappy about Wilson's obvious lack of control over his rudimentary shields since the oncologist had almost shied away from his touch.

"I don't care what you tell Cuddy," House growled. "We're leaving!"

"I know you are," was the level reply. "And I know my job, Dr. House."

The last was said with a sliver of steel that even impressed House. Blue eyes met even more intense blue ones. Chase wasn't backing down and House smirked a little at that.

"So what's the lie?"

"There are no lies," was the smooth reply. "Dr. Wilson has a mild concussion and is released into your care as his personal doctor."

"There's about three lies in that sentence alone."

Chase didn't take the bait, just went to remove the IV. No nurse was present and House wondered what they had been told. It wasn't as if Wilson had insisted on privacy, but House had probably scared them off. Good for them, too.

"Shields?" the Australian inquired of his patient.

"Better," Wilson answered truthfully.

"You can't normally read me that easily," Chase continued conversationally.

"I guess getting knocked around screwed with that," Wilson sighed.

"How bad are the fluctuations?"

"Not bad. I'm aware of you, but not painfully. Neither of anyone around here. I'll be fine, Chase," Wilson tried to reassure his ally.

That got him a frown, but Chase didn't press on. He taped a band-aid over the small injury to the skin made by the IV needle. Wilson made an attempt to sit up and Chase helped him as he swayed.

House watched, all open to his lover once more, feeling his own shoulders knot and his stomach tighten at the sick image he got of the empath. Wilson dressed with some help. A nurse brought a wheelchair and with a little effort Wilson managed to get into it, groaning. His eyes were screwed shut and House knew what kind of headache his lover was suffering from.

"I think I'll drive," House muttered.

"Good," was the faint reply.

Damn, he looked even worse now, the bruises truly blooming.

Chase was the one to push the wheelchair and House was the one to deflect Cuddy and Cameron.

Perfect team work.

* * *

"You keep that up and you'll need a bodyguard."

Wilson looked at House, a tired, pained expression in his eyes. The wound on his head was covered, but the huge bruise spreading over his cheek and chin couldn't be hidden. One eye was slightly blood-shot. There were contusions all over his side. He looked like roadkill.

"I'll call you," he answered faintly. "Got a cane."

House smirked. "And I know how to use it."

The tired eyes closed briefly. Like years before after the attack by a drugged magic user, he was now being baby-sitted by House. Not in a small apartment, but in their shared home. Wilson lay on the comfortable recliner, looking miserable. He had already taken his painkillers and would soon drift off.

House lowered himself to sit carefully on the recliner's side, looking at his lover. One hand gently touched the good side of Wilson's head.

"Sick? Nauseous? Pain?" he asked softly.

"Just tired."

"Sleep."

"No argument from me."

House leaned forward and pressed their lips together. Wilson smiled faintly.

“Wouldn’t the bed be better?” House murmured.

“Moving bad.”

“Moving good. You’ll end up with more cramps.”

“Moving bad. Feel sick.”

House grabbed the bucket he had gotten out of the cleaning closet. He knew they would need it tonight. Probably for a while. Wilson had been given a few shots to prevent him from puking all over the car, but that wouldn’t last all night. The nausea would come.
 
 

It came.

Right after Wilson got upright. House pushed the bucket at him and soon his lover was puking his guts out. Tremors went through the slender frame and Wilson moaned softly, then a new wave hit.

It took a while to get him into bed and House had the unpleasant task of washing out the bucket, but it was necessary. He placed it back beside the bed and readied a syringe. Wilson might need a new injection with the good stuff that kept the nausea at bay. Too much wasn’t good either, so the younger man had to suffer through this.

Wilson was already out like a light, though his face showed lines of pain, and the Diagnostic could tell how much pain his lover felt. He couldn’t do anything about it. Only Healers could. Healers and some good drugs.
So House settled down in the armchair he normally used to throw his clothes on, feet up on the night table, and he watched Wilson sleep – until it was time to wake the man and check on his reactions, listen to his complaints, then guard his sleep again.

Yes, this night would be fun...

* * *

The good thing about being a paranormal was that you didn't get sick so easily and healing was a little faster than the average human. Then again, Wilson suffered just the same and it took a day of throwing up and two days of murderous headaches for him to finally get through the concussion. Day four was mild headache day and day five had him sprawled on the couch, finally able to tolerate moderate light, and actually feeling something akin to hunger. Before that it had been tea and soups and whatever he didn’t throw up right away.
Christmas had come and gone, and despite the fluffy whiteness outside, House didn’t feel very festive. They had a tiny Christmas tree, thanks to Rose Wilson who had sent it to them. It reached about to his knee, was more like a conical potted plant, with a golden garland wrapped around it, and some tiny ornaments. The pot had been painted golden and there were angel wings sprayed onto it.

Wilson had placed the tiny copy of the real thing onto the piano, where it mocked House every day, and House himself had refrained from getting rid of it because, well, yes, it looked nice. And it was Christmas. And while he fought the happy-happy spirit of the thing, he secretly enjoyed a few parts of the season.

Like buying Wilson the most garish Christmas present ever.

Right now he would have to wait for his lover to be more or less coherent to appreciate the thought House had put into it. It sat near the tiny tree, waiting.

House had spent the first day after the attack at home, watching Wilson. He had gone to work the second day because of an emergency case that had kept him busy for almost all day until he had solved the riddle. Of course he had bitched at Cuddy for ten minutes before he had agreed to leave Wilson's side. It wouldn't do to just say 'Yes, boss' and come like a well-trained puppy.

It had been John Pyre who had come over throughout that day, sharing the Wilson-sitting fun, though the oncologist had slept most of the day. When House had come home he had found Pyre reading, Wilson asleep in the recliner, and the TV running with some old Christmas movie.

"He's asleep again. Woke up twice, I got him to take his medication, drink some liquids, then he was out like a light again," the lawyer told him calmly.

House only nodded, limping over to the bedroom to take a peek. Wilson was truly sleeping and it didn't look like he was uncomfortable. If at all, he looked a lot better than this morning.

"Need anything?" John asked.

"No."

Pyre didn't need to hear the words 'get out, now'. He seemed to sense them. He packed his things and left to be with Chase for Christmas. While Chase was on call for emergencies, the Australian had taken time off. It would be the first Christmas those two were spending together.

Sweet, House mused with a grimace. Young love. Oh so sweet.

For the first day in over a decade House was at home for Christmas Day.

Not that Wilson would be much company.
 
 

And he wasn't. Not at all.

At least until he was awake, had showered and had eaten what little he could. After that it had been snuggling together and House giving his empathic lover the touch he craved. Wilson had promptly fallen asleep again.

Wilson’s mother had called and House had briefly told her what had happened in his rather brisk and gruff way, added a few choice words about what he thought empaths were in regard to danger proximity and accident proneness, then he had handed the phone over to Wilson. His lover had just grimaced at him. House had listened in to the conversation between mother and son, had rolled his eyes when James had promised to see if he could come over after the holidays for some family time, and finally he had thrown some wadded up paper at the other man when Wilson had sworn a holy oath to also bring House along.

“She just wants to see you,” Wilson had told him.

“I’m not a family guy.”

“You are now. You have been adopted.”

House had grimaced. “I’m not a pet!”

Wilson’s smile had been full of mischief. “But you purr.”

If his lover hadn’t been in such a generally miserable state, House would have done something nasty. So he had just scowled at the recovering invalid, swearing revenge at a later date.

*

Right now, a week after the accident, they were together on the couch and he ran gentle fingers up and down the shirt-sleeved arm around his ribs. Now and then his eyes strayed to the thin scar on Wilson's neck, the permanent reminder of how he had nearly lost his best friend, and how they had finally made that last step from friends to lovers. The head wound probably wouldn't leave a mark, but the bandage taped to Wilson's forehead was a glaring reminder of the attack.

Like back then… when Wilson had been thrown through the glass wall… and nearly been killed.

House pushed those surging emotions back down as he discovered the mild grimace on Wilson's features.

"Jimmy?"

"Not sleepin'," came the mumbled reply and dark eyes cracked open.

"I can see that. Head?"

"No, just sleepy. Head's fine. Stop worryin'. 'S not your thing."

Wilson had wanted to return to work two days after the attack, but Cuddy had told him to stay home or she would personally cart him back. He was on sick leave until next year, and that year was about to start in a few more days. It helped that Chase had added a few things to the file about the attack, giving the empath the necessary time to recover both mentally as well as physically. Allies were good in that regard. House had to give it to his only resident staff member.

House chuckled and captured Wilson's lips in a kiss. "What is my thing?"

"That." And a hand snaked up and cupped House's head, pulling him close again.

They hadn't had more than the occasional kiss in over a week and even that had been painful because of the bruised face. The colourful swelling had gone down by now and there was just the healing bruise as a reminder.

"Good thing, too," Wilson added with a seductive smile. "I like it."

"Do you?" House growled. "Want some more?"

"Was hoping for more."

Wilson sounded a lot more awake and the light in the brown eyes wasn't diluted by pain. House let his hands and lips reacquaint themselves with his lover's body, stripping off clothes in the process. He was careful, aware that Wilson could still show belated symptoms from the concussion. From the way those hands were running over his body, those lips were devouring him, there was hardly anything left.

House smirked as he watched dark brown eyes dilate, as emotions filled them, his own, his own feelings for his lover, and he knew the shields were lowering.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmured, nipping roughly at the tender skin below Wilson’s left ear.

It got him a shudder.

“Trust you.”

House smiled darkly. “Sometimes too much.”

Chocolaty depths burned with desire and need. “No. Not too much. Know you.”

House straddled the prone man, feeling the rising hardness press against his own skin. While Wilson wasn’t completely up to par, he was showing more reaction than a week ago. His body, thought not one hundred percent back to what it had been, had recovered enough for him to enjoy touches as more than a reassurance that House was there.

House wrapped long fingers around the erection and fisted it slowly. Wilson licked his lips, moaning soft encouragement.

“Like?” House purred.

Wilson pushed up again.

“Hm, like,” the Diagnostic drawled, smiling wolfishly. “Like much.”

“Greg…”

“Jimmy?”

“Please…”

“You’re not even fully hard yet. Don’t tell me empaths are hyper-sensitive like that.”

“No.” Another push. “More.”

House silenced him with a strong kiss, devouring the familiar mouth. “Demanding much?”

But House complied and his movements grew more intense, his eyes on the man underneath him, and he listened to each little moan or whimper. He felt himself grow harder with each move. Friction was delicious.

Wilson gave a soft groan and came. House needed a few more moves, then he added his own with a gasp of completion. He looked down into the flushed face. Wilson's eyes were almost closed, he was breathing as hard as if they had just spent hours between the sheets, and House frowned a little. His powers came to the forefront unbidden and he almost growled.

"Headache," he said and it sounded like a curse.

"I'm okay, Greg."

"And everybody lies."

House got off the couch, limping over to the bathroom to get the towels and the painkillers. Wilson weakly tried to sit up, but he pushed him down again.

"Take two, get your shields up, and relax."

Gentle swipes cleaned up the mess they had made and Wilson let it happen, fine lines of pain showing more and more.

"Shields?" House asked gruffly.

"'S okay."

"Are they up?" he repeated.

"Mostly."

House zipped himself up and gazed down at his still sick lover. Wilson reached up, cupping his neck, tugging carefully. House leaned down and their lips brushed together, stubble scraping over clean-shaven skin. When he drew back, James' eyes were closed and he was relaxing more and more by the second.

Watching silently, Wilson still keeping his hand on House's neck, House brushed his finger's through the unruly hair. He kept scanning, keeping an eye on the raw looking energy lines as the painkillers took effect, as the shields managed to recover, and he relaxed a little more.

Empaths with concussions. Damn the drug addict who had done this! Bruises healed naturally, but emotional overload was still painful.

"Good?" he finally growled.

Brown eyes opened and Wilson smiled a little. "Yes. Good."

"No more sex for you, Jimmy."

"It wasn't the sex!" Wilson protested faintly.

"Your shields can't handle this right now."

"Well, not the whole enchilada, but this was… it wasn't bad, Greg. Really. Just…" Wilson trailed off and sighed.

House smirked a little. "It was really good and really bad for you. But for now we'll leave it at my right hand and some heavy necking."

"Greg!"

He grinned mischievously. "I'll let you watch."

"And that's different from what we just did how…?"

"Oh, I don't know. We should try it out and see where it leaves you."

Wilson frowned. "Hot and bothered."

House nipped at the pouting lips. "I like you hot and bothered," he replied roughly. "Give your shields and energy lines another day to adjust, then we'll experiment some more."

James caught his lips in a kiss, deepening it, and House let him. Neither of them was in any shape for a second round, least of all his lover, but the Tylenol was doing its magic and he liked kissing the other man very much.

* * *

House came home from a frustrating day where he had come head to head with just about everyone, from patient to relative to nurse to doctor and finally Cuddy herself. She had read him the riot act, told him to clean up his act, that even if Wilson wasn't around he could be a decent human being, and then sent him to a patient who had been admitted with spastic attacks. House had buried himself in that case, tormenting his team and the stricken wife of the middle-aged man until he had finally found the root of the problem.

Wilson was home, watching TV, and when House simply dropped his leather jacket and limped angrily over to the kitchen to find something greasy and unhealthy to eat, brows rose quizzically.

"Shut up," House snarled and plopped onto the couch, the cane clattering to the floor.

If he still had the infarction pain of before, he would probably be swallowing his fourth serving of double-Vicodin on a wheat bun, hold the mustard, fries on the side. So it was just an area of numbness that only complained when House truly abused his leg.

Wilson's eyebrows rose higher, but he didn't say a word, just snagged a handful of chips from House. It got the oncologist a grumble.

An hour into some inane show, House felt himself unwind more and more. He had emptied the bag of chips and added a nuked pizza to it. Wilson still didn't comment, just let him be. House had twice checked on his lover's empathic well-being, but he had seen no pinched look, no lines of pain, no sign that his mood was hurting the other man, so his conscience was guilt-free in that regard.

When the phone rang, Wilson picked up and House frowned mildly as his lover disappeared in his office. He thought he heard the name 'Robert', which gave way to the suspicion that this was Chase calling. If it was Chase, then it was either about House's bad day, something totally irrelevant from work, or ally stuff.

Wilson surfaced almost forty minutes later.

House's brows rose briefly. 'So?'

Wilson only shrugged. 'So what?'

A more demanding expression came next. 'What the fuck did he want?'

Wilson smiled. 'None of your business.'

"Spit it out before I have to hurt you," House finally snapped.

"It was a private call, House."

"From Chase."

Wilson tilted his head a little.

"Ears like a bat," House quipped.

"Curious like a cat."

"So Chase called?"

Wilson sighed. "Yes, he did. And no, it's not about your abysmal behaviour today. Cuddy already warned me."

House's brows dipped into a frown. More about the remark that this wasn't about today but about something between Chase and Wilson.

"You making hot dates?" he snarked.

"Oh yes. Very hot. I can't wait till you leave each day so I can call Chase to come over and we have some fun," was the sarcastic reply. "Sometimes he brings Pyre along. A real party." Wilson threw the bunched-up paper chips bag at him.

"You're such a child," House chided.

"No, you are. Curious and persistent and ill-tempered for no reason at all, combined with a really sharp tongue and acid remarks."

"Which brings us back to Chase…?"

Wilson rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Ally business. It's just ally business. He wanted to know how I am, as an empath, and we talked about the fluctuations again. Nothing extraordinary. He needs to know, Greg, and I'm telling him voluntarily."

That got Wilson a grunt in reply.

"Jealous?" Wilson teased.

The chips bag flew back and Wilson deflected it easily, laughing softly.

"You are jealous!" he crowed.

"I'm not! Least of all of that little Kiwi butt!"

Brown eyes glowed with delight and House pushed himself up to avoid more teasing by limping into the kitchen. Of course he should have counted on Wilson following. Of course he should have anticipated the continued verbal sparring, followed by a hot kissing session. And he should, of course, have anticipated the equally hot blow job that smoothed his ruffled feathers and had him like putty in Wilson's hands.

Damn.

He hated it when Wilson won through sex.

But, shit, it was good.

* * *

New Year came with a bang.

As did House.

Ow, yes, that was bad, the man in question mused as he lay in the king-sized bed, Wilson in his arms, both men coming down from a sexual high that had floored him. Wilson was probably empathically comatose, but House didn't mind at all. It had been his sole intention to make it good, to make it last, and while they rarely used toys, if at all, this special occasion had called for some imagination.

Fire works were going off outside, illuminating the bedroom through the high windows. House hadn't pulled the blinds closed and he had a good view of the hundreds of dollars per family that ended up in spectacular greens, blues, reds, golden, silver and violet, with orange and yellow here or there. It was fantastic to look at, but he refused to spend a single dollar on fire works. Let others do the work. He liked to watch.

Speaking of which…

House turned to the spent man at his side, smirking a little as he took in the sated expression. He kissed him softly, felt Wilson reply, and the absence of a post-coital shudder told him that the shields were up again. At least the rudimentary ones. He loved it when James dropped everything, when he felt not only his own emotions but those of House as well, when he would let everything merge and just… feel. Sometimes House was even jealous, wanted to know what it felt like, because when he looked at the other man he realized it had to be fantastic.

"Happy New Year," Wilson murmured.

"Hm, we started it with a lot of good intentions."

"That's what they call it now?"

House grinned wolfishly. "We could also say spankin' hot sex." There was a prominent leer in his voice.

"We could," was the lazy answer.

House brushed his lips over the glaringly obvious hickey that adorned Wilson's neck and his lover arched into the nibble.

Sensuous, House mused. Just rudimentary shields then.

Not that either man would be able to go for a third round. Not after the first two felt like ten already.

A particularly large display of golden and red sparkles had Wilson smile in appreciation and they continued to watch in silence until the fire works tapered off, became less and less.

"Shower," House decided and wriggled out of bed to limp over to the bathroom.

Wilson followed, limping himself, though it wasn't from an old injury. House grinned again, smug and almost triumphant, and Wilson shot him a dark look.

Revenge was sweet.

Even if it had to wait for another day or two.

* * *

"It's…" Wilson glanced at the unwrapped present with a frown. "It's a cactus."

"A singing cactus," House added, smirking.

"With a Santa's hat."

"Don't forget the beard."

"How can I? It's pink."

"First well to the green."

"That's… more like... lime green."

House leaned back, looking very pleased with himself. He had found the forgotten present after New Year's. With all that had happened, he had had other things on his mind than present. Not that Wilson had forgotten, too. He had given him his just a few days after the grand day of present exchange. It had been a box full of books by Bill Bryson, an author House liked to read and snicker at his writing. Not because it was bad but because the man was just that good with his pointed remarks about life.

"It sings, too," House added.

Wilson rolled his eyes and put the cactus, singing or otherwise, made in Mexico or wherever, into the box. The box was placed on the narrow bench-like table behind the couch. He leaned back next to House and shot him a narrow-eyed look.

"It's tacky," he finally said.

"It's a classic," House corrected.

"In whose book?"

"Mine."

Wilson shook his head with mild exasperation. House leaned in, watching him like a hawk, and when Wilson turned, their lips met. It was a languid, deep kiss that had House want more. He pulled his lover closer by his shirt and Wilson grunted, trying to accommodate his lover. With some shifting and rearranging, he was finally straddling House and House took advantage of the nearness of his lover's throat to kiss and lick and bite there.

"This is not going to make me like it more," Wilson muttered.

"How about the gift giver?" House batted his eyes.

"Not yet."

House growled and assaulted his mouth again. The languidness turned to a fight for dominance that grew steadily until Wilson gave in with a shiver. House smiled triumphantly, pulling the shirt tails out of the jeans pants Wilson had chosen to wear. Slowly unbuttoning the light blue shirt he finally had access to the white cotton t-shirt underneath, which he quickly pushed up to touch naked skin. Wilson stripped it off, looking eager while trying not to, and House's smile grew wolfish. He ran splayed hands up and down the smooth, muscular back, delighting in the feel, and leaned back once more. Wilson followed the move, hands on the back of the couch to keep from smothering the other man, and their lips met in a kiss again.

It was all they did for quite a while, exploring each other, House adding a few bites to leave a mark or two until tomorrow, while his hands were busy on Wilson's back. Hitting an especially sensitive spot resulted in a yelp from Wilson and one hand slipped from its purchase, knocking against the gift box. The cactus went flying and hit the ground.

Rather bad Christmas carols started immediately, sung by what might be the worst and cheapest mechanic voice ever.

Wilson bowed his head, laughing, hiding his face in the crook of House's neck. "Oh God, that's so bad!"

House snorted. "Classic," he reiterated."

"It's trash, House."

"You call my present trashy?"

"Yes, trashy. And tacky. And cheap. And so you."

Brown eyes sparkled with good humor and Wilson stole another kiss to the crackly sound of what might be Jingle Bells but could be the Spanish version of Silent Night, too. With a last kiss he untangled himself from House and grabbed the wayward gift, deftly removing the batteries.

Blessed silence.

House craned his neck at his lover, raising an eyebrow.

Wilson raised one back.

"You plan on coming back?"

"Nope."

"Too bad."

"I plan on being in the bedroom," Wilson continued.

House studied the enticing sight of his lover half naked, glaringly obvious bite marks on his collar bone and neck, and he licked his lips.

"Bedroom, hm?"

"Bedroom."

"Sounds like a plan."

He got himself to his feet and limped toward James, eyes lighting up with a predatory gleam. Wilson's reflected that gleam as he moved away, slowly, seductively, without even trying to make it so.

Yes, it sounded like a plan. A very good plan. With a last look at the hideous singing cactus with its pink beard and Santa's hat, House walked into the bedroom, stalking his prey, being stalked in turn, and when the bedroom door closed, all bets were off.