The Struggle

Don't Make It Weird

House reached for the loofah—well, technically, it was Wilson’s fluffy blue “poof”—and squeezed a generous amount of body wash onto it. The scent was something pretentious like “ocean breeze and eucalyptus,” because of course it was. Wilson probably thought it made him smell fresh and calming. Right now, he just smelled like a bonfire and bourbon. Improvement was necessary.

“Alright, keep your arms where they are and try not to fall over. I’m not catching you if you crack your head on the tile,” House muttered as he stepped in front of him, starting at Wilson’s collarbone and working his way down in firm, methodical strokes.

Wilson blinked, dazed but vaguely aware, leaning back against the tiled wall and letting House work. “M’not gonna fall,” he mumbled, though he was doing a damn good impression of a human puddle.

“Sure, and I’m a licensed massage therapist,” House said, not unkindly.

He kept the pressure steady, moving over Wilson’s chest, arms, and stomach with careful precision. It wasn’t sensual, and House made a very deliberate point to avoid anything that could be interpreted as even slightly suggestive. His eyes stayed focused on his task. He didn’t leer, didn’t joke, didn’t push.

Because drunk or not, Wilson was his.

And that meant respecting him. Even if House wanted—deeply, badly—to get closer.

He crouched a little, scrubbing gently over Wilson’s thighs, knuckles brushing against the edges of his hips, then quickly retreating.

“No funny business,” he muttered to himself.

“Wouldn’t laugh anyway,” Wilson said blearily, eyes half-lidded and barely following the conversation.

House snorted under his breath, standing back up and rinsing the loofah before reaching over to help rinse the soap off Wilson’s skin.

He didn’t say it out loud, but the truth settled quietly in his chest.

He’d never do anything to make Wilson regret trusting him. Not even if Wilson begged for it in this state. Especially not then.

He tossed the loofah aside and turned Wilson gently under the spray one last time. “Alright, you're no longer a walking fire hazard. Time to get out before you drown standing up.”

Wilson blinked at him, lips curling slightly. “You’re nice when I’m pathetic.”

House gave a scoff. “Don’t get used to it.”

But his hand was still steady at Wilson’s back, guiding him toward the towel rack, careful and quiet.

There was no romance in this moment.

Just care.

And for House… that might’ve been even more intimate.