Title: Prevention
Author/Artist: subluxate
Community: 30_lemons
Pairing/Fandom: Dr. Greg House and Dr. James Wilson, House, M.D.
Theme: 27. The Mile-High Club, or, "Wow, This Gives a Whole New Meaning to Flying the Friendly Skies!"
Rating: Adult
Warnings: Fairly explicit handjob. Oh, and boykisses.
Word Count: 1,699
Disclaimer: If you believe I own them, I have a bridge to sell you, barely used, over in New York—specifically, Brooklyn.
Author's Notes: Despite my best efforts, there’s a hint of a plot here. My bad. Beta-read by amazonqueenkate and sarcasticsra. "Pred" means "prednisone", a steroid sometimes used in cancer treatment, though it has many applications.


Unsurprisingly, House had gotten an aisle seat for this cross-country flight. Wilson hadn’t commented when he’d seen House palm a Vicodin half an hour early, an hour and a half before boarding began, and mix it with three ibuprofen; the pressure changes were bound to be hell on his leg, and Wilson figured it was better for House to prevent the pain than have to fight it at thirty thousand feet. It was also better for everyone else on the plane, but that was a different subject. He was just glad House hadn’t tripled his dose.

Now, though, House had been up from his seat to pace the length of first class a dozen times in the past twenty minutes, and each time he’d gone up and down at least four times. This didn’t bode well for the next four hours, and Wilson had to wonder what Cuddy had been thinking, sending House to a conference in Los Angeles. Of course, House had obviously agreed, so she wasn’t the only mildly insane one around.

When House finally settled down again and picked up a book, one of several trashy novels Wilson had bought in the airport when he realized he’d otherwise be subjected to House’s incessant talking for the entire flight, not to mention the pre-boarding time, Wilson didn’t look up from the copy of chart notes he was reading over. “The walking helping?” He kept his voice neutral in hopes it wouldn’t set House off.

It worked. “No, I’m doing it because I like to make my leg feel worse.” The retort wasn’t nearly as sharp as House could get, especially when he was in more pain than usual.

“Of course.” Wilson kept his tone intentionally light. “It gives you a reason to get high.”

“Are you becoming an optimist on me? I thought I’d trained you better than that.”

“No, that’s the kids.”

“Oh, right. You keep getting married and thinking it’ll work. How could I have made that mistake?”

Rising to the bait when House was in this particular mood would just encourage him to keep it up. Instead, Wilson tossed the blanket folded over his legs to cover House’s lap as well.

House pushed it away irritably. “If I want a blanket, I’ll get one myself.”

“Do that, or use this one.” Wilson slid the folder of notes into the seat pocket and set a hand casually against House’s left thigh.

For once, House was slightly slower on the uptake than Wilson had expected, but only by a split second. Then he pulled the blanket back over his lap and arranged it to cover partway up his stomach. “Dr. Wilson, are you trying to seduce me?”

“Seduce you? No, that’s too much effort, and hard to do on a plane,” Wilson murmured. “There’s a theory that pleasure can overcome pain for a time.” His hand crept inward, over House’s thigh, and House shifted slightly in his seat so he was turned subtly toward Wilson.

“I’ve never heard of this particular theory,” House argued. “What’s it called?”

“The Wilson theory of getting House to stay still before the rest of first class murders him.”

“Oh, that one. I’ve never had much faith in it.”

Wilson found House’s fly and popped the button with his thumb, then pulled the zipper down slowly, pausing very briefly after each tooth was freed. “Why not? It should work fine.”

“It assumes that I don’t piss them off some other way, like making sounds.”

“Isn’t it fortunate that you’re quiet when you’re being jerked off?” Wilson was already hard, but he wasn’t expecting House to do anything about it—besides be fucked into the mattress once they’d landed and found their hotel. But that could wait; the immediate concern was getting House’s mind off his leg, at least for the minutes it would take to get him off. He could draw it out, too, make it last so the pain would stay distant longer. Wilson slipped his hand inside House’s jeans, staying above the soft cotton of the boxers.

“Assuming you want to keep me alive, sure.” The only reason House could reply that coherently, Wilson figured, was because his dick was still mostly flaccid. That wasn’t a surprise; given how he probably felt, it’d take some work to get him responsive. Once he was, though, House wouldn’t be able to talk.

A quick glance around the curtained-off section revealed no children—definitely a benefit to flying first class—and only two other passengers awake, both of whom looked absorbed in reading. Wilson thankfully didn’t recognize any of them, and he leaned over to kiss House’s slightly chapped thin lips. House responded to that well, trying to take control of the kiss, nipping at Wilson’ lower lip as Wilson gently squeezed his hardening penis.

Wilson broke the kiss and smirked at House, easing his hand back out from under his pants, and House gave a little murmur of protest. “There have been times I’ve wanted to kill you, yes, but while you’re in pain is oddly not one of them.”

“I’m always in pain.” House had apparently regained his coherence.

“Fine, when you’re in additional pain that isn’t directly from something stupid you did.”

“Flying doesn’t count as stupid? This is good to know.”

“Flying is necessary for getting to this conference, which I know you didn’t particularly want to attend.” Wilson mulled that over for a moment. “Why are you coming, anyway?” He groaned inwardly at his word choice; House would probably notice.

“I’m not yet, since you stopped,” House grumbled. “And she can, at times, manipulate me into doing what she wants. Feminine wiles and all that.”

“You two, without me?” Wilson was mildly put out. That arrangement was supposed to include all three of them.

Of course, he reasoned, he was hardly in a position to be annoyed by people cheating in any way.

“Jealous, Jimmy?” Great. Now House was amused. “Worried she’s going to steal me away?”

The thing about House when he was in this particular mood was that the best way to distract him was with sex, and conveniently, his fly was still open and he hadn’t gotten off. Wilson reached into the flap of House’s boxers with his fingertips and traced lightly across soft, warm skin. He was rewarded with a sharp inward hiss of breath. “Cocktease,” House muttered.

Wilson stopped the motion of his fingers and cocked his head. “Sorry, Greg, I don’t think I caught that.”

House sagged in his seat slightly. Apparently, he could recognize Wilson’ moods pretty well, too. Good to know the man wasn’t totally self-absorbed. That was somewhat unfair—Wilson knew how much House paid attention to other people, making fast judgments, but sometimes he had to wonder. “Sorry.”

That was the best Wilson was going to get for now, but in the hotel later… He took House’s length in hand and carefully maneuvered him free of his boxers. The angle was awkward, using his right hand under the blanket, and he kept it slow to keep the movement from being too obvious, his palm sliding along the hardness, squeezing gently at times. That pace had the added benefit of drawing it out and keeping House’s focus on exactly what Wilson’ hand was doing to him, rather than on the ache Wilson was certain had to be increasing in his thigh.

When he was sure that House was close, right on the edge, he nudged his arm and handed him a tissue. House’s higher mental functions were apparently intact enough for him to get what Wilson meant for him to do, because he took the tissue and slipped his hand under the blanket. Wilson’ hand bumped into it on the next upstroke, and he glanced at House’s face to see him biting his lower lip. A twist of Wilson’ wrist, and he could feel House’s orgasm, the flesh contracting under his hand.

House dropped his head to Wilson’ shoulder, apparently far better off than before they’d started, and Wilson tucked him back into his boxers, closing the fly of his jeans. The tissue he wadded up and stuck in his pocket for the time being; one of them could get rid of it when they used the restroom.

When House’s head bumped the side of Wilson’ neck, Wilson looked down at him as best he could, considering the angle. “What?”

“You were right.” House sounded tired. Good. If he went to sleep, he’d feel the leg less—as long as he took his meds first.

“The theory held?” He could keep up with House better than most thought he could.

House nodded and reached automatically into his pocket, taking out two small bottles this time. Wilson took them before House could even try to wrestle them open and popped the caps easily, handing him first a chalky-white Vicodin, then two blue ibuprofen liquid capsules. He wasn’t about to mention the effects of too much ibuprofen, which House was verging on now; that’d just earn him a sharp reminder that he was an oncologist, not a nephrologist, followed by a lecture on exactly how anti-inflammatories could affect the kidneys and why. If he really got going, he’d move on to exactly the effects of every chemo drug he could think of offhand—an impressive array—and pred, not to mention radiation, and no matter what Wilson said, he wouldn’t shut up. That was just how House was, and the only way to avoid it was to know what not to say.

“Three works better,” he bitched, and Wilson snorted, pocketing the drugs.

“I’ll buy you an icepack when we land.”

House grumbled at the suggestion, and Wilson ignored him.

“And if you really need it, I’ve got Neurontin and Mexitil.”

“You’re spoiling me,” House muttered, yawning.

“Nope. Just don’t want to listen to you complaining. Go to sleep already.”

House seemed to think that was a good idea, and Wilson nearly reached for the folder again before changing his mind and choosing one of the novels instead. It wouldn’t kill him to take some time off work, especially with House sleeping against him.

Besides, sometimes trashy could be good.

Tags: 30 lemons, greg house, greg house/james wilson, james wilson, smut