It was a rash.

Admittedly, it was quite a spectacular rash, but just a rash in the end, so James Wilson shrugged at his reflection and distractedly applied a topical lotion before going to bed.

Next morning, the rash was still there. And now it was itching with a passion.

Wilson frowned, scratched a particularly evil flare on his chest and got ready for work. It was just a rash, but just in case, he'd ask House about it. For some reason, the familiar shot of warmth from his chest to his groin at the thought of the cranky, irritating bastard didn't occur. Wilson found himself hopeful. Perhaps his chronic arousal when it came to his best friend had finally fallen away, reason conquering in the end.

By mid morning, he was restraining himself from scratching publicly like some sort of ape, his smile straining at the edges as he treated his patients. House was nowhere to be found. Signing a prescription, Wilson gave his usual dazzling smile, then held back the need to moan miserably when the itching grew tenfold.

When he couldn't find House at lunch, he realized something was wrong... and that he had forgotten something.

Gregory House was quite adept at hiding when he didn't want himself to be found, and considering the horrible fight they had had on Sunday - he hadn't meant to imply House couldn't take care of himself, really, he was just worried at the increasing number of prescriptions he had to sign for him - Wilson understood he was now persona non grata, a status that would take plenty of coercion to change. He'd have to bribe House with something.

Slightly dejected, Wilson stalked back to his office, absently scratching his collarbone through the shirt.

He went through the motions for the rest of the day mechanically, his mind deeply involved with the plan to make House speak to him again. There was always the chance to let things as they were and wait for House to get bored and seek him out; it always went that way when they fought, but Wilson really didn't want to go to someone else about the mysterious rash that was hell-bent on driving him insane. The dermatologists were nice... but they were also incredibly gossipy. If James Wilson ever hoped to get laid with someone from the hospital, he had to remain away from the speculative department, or they'd make his life hell until something more thrilling than him catching something, for lack of better wording, icky came around.

Every time he thought of House, their fight or possible peace offerings, the itching grew exponentially.

Wilson gave up finding him when the clock hit ten and instead stalked towards the locker room, deciding to call it a day. There was no one in the room, the showers deserted. The night shift had started over two hours prior, so no one had business being around the lockers for another six hours or so. Taking off his shirt, Wilson scratched the base of his spine, wondering what could have possibly caused the disaster.

"You look like shit." Wilson startled, whirling around to find House leaning against the doorway. The older man sneered, "That's why you should have stayed married. At least that way you were more or less sure she was clean."

Three sentences, and Wilson promptly forgot why he cared about the idiotic asshole in the first place.

Standing stiffly, he narrowed his eyes and forcefully stopped himself from rubbing against the locker door. House rolled his eyes dramatically. He entered the room, locking the door behind him and advancing on Wilson as predatorily as a limping man was allowed to. Feeling strangely nervous with his current condition - really, his chest looked horrible - the oncologist flattened himself against the lockers. House stopped at arm's distance, eyebrows arched as his eyes ran critically over the angry red flesh before him. Wilson wasn't a particularly vain man, but he was generally content with his physical appereance. The sudden rash was irritating, though not life-threatening; it made him self-conscious, though, despite the fact he and House had seen each other in all possible states of undress during the course of their eccentric friendship.

House poked him with the tip of his cane.

"Hey!" Holding onto his battered dignity, Wilson glared, "If you're done with the mocking, leave me alone."

House ignored him.

"When did it start?" He poked him again when Wilson refused to answer.

"Will you stop that?" Now starting to get pissed off, the oncologist caught House's cane with his hand, eyes narrowed. House merely looked at him, clearly expecting an answer. "It was there on Sunday," He sighed in defeat, as per usual, when it came to House, he was simply unable to deny the man, "Before I went to bed."

"Hm."

Wilson wondered if all bugs in the world felt like he did, when they were roughly placed under a microscope, or if was, maybe, a side effect of the ungodly want he'd been nursing for the last three years. After the divorce, it became increasingly easy to start thinking about his friendship with House in a different light. After all, the main cause of the divorce - aside the fact he'd caught his wife and their lawyer closing a deal on their bed - was her insistence that he was cheating on her. With House.

While he was signing the papers, the notion had been ludicrous.

Nearly three years worth of one-night stands later and only House as the constant in his life, Wilson had to wonder.

"Drop the pants." He stared dumbly at House for a moment, snapped back from his contemplations by the sharp command. House sneered. "What? You want me to do it for you?"

Biting back a snide retort, Wilson obeyed, fumbling with his pants as he did so. He had wanted House to check on him, hadn’t he? Wilson rolled his eyes, then winced when he looked down at himself. The red rash spread all the way to his thighs, angry and itching. House hm'ed again.

"Well?" All the oncologist wanted was to be allowed to go, to spend the night watching TV and ignoring the hurt that swelled at the snide remarks being shoved his way, without the smallest consideration.

He also wanted to get away before his libido could process the fact the situation fit rather snuggly into a familiar scenario. The last thing Wilson needed was to get a hard-on while House was watching.

"Interesting," House said with that wrenched smile of his, "I have a theory."

There was a dramatic pause that only served to make Wilson a thousand times more itchy and uncomfortable.

“I know, let’s test it,” House announced with a sadistic edge to his smile.

Wilson would have asked, but just as he was about to demand House to leave his petty games for another time, the older man bent over and licked him. It was a very dog-like lick, too, his tongue pressing flatly over the skin above his collarbone, then sliding upwards to his chin.

Wilson’s mind crumbled and he sagged against the locker, moaning lowly.

The skin House had licked was slowly returning to normal. The nephrologist’s smile turned positively diabolic.

“So… Jimmy,” House sat on one of the benches between the lockers, looking smug, “How long have you been wanting to get into my pants?” Wilson paled into a sickly white that was nearly transparent. House didn’t lose his smile. “Don’t you love the subconscious mind? I do. People can lie all the want, but their subconscious is always there to kick their asses and get them to spill the beans.” He made an innocent face, which wasn’t much, and waved the cane around lightly, “Psychosomatic reaction, I believe. Did you have a fight with a loved one on Sunday? Tried to suppress a strong emotion? Had a nervous breakdown?”

Wilson didn’t know what was worse, the fact House was extracting his sadistic pleasure out of torturing him, or the fact he was getting aroused by the caustic words.

“Did you purposely insult the man you love and tried to ignore the guilt chewing at your conscience?”

“Shut up.” His voice was shaky at best, so he put his best efforts in a glare, “Just shut up.”

House simply rolled his eyes and blocked his way with the cane when he attempted to move away.

“Come here,” When Wilson stared, he snorted, “Do you want me to fix you or not?”

Shivering, the younger man walked up to House, who looked up at him with a risen eyebrow until Wilson was standing between his legs. When pianist hands reached up to rub at his swollen skin, he forgot how to breathe.

Fingers kneaded gently, soothing the itching in ways the savage scratching hadn’t been able to, and slowly, very slowly, Wilson began to relax. He tried to control his ragged breathing and tone down the heat raising through his spine and pooling at his groin.

When he thought he could actually manage to hold off, House leaned in and bit the skin right above his navel, his tongue lashing out against his tortured flesh.

At some point during the ‘treatment’, Wilson lost his underwear, House's fingers grabbed his straining erection and both began moaning. Fingers threaded through House’s short hair, hands clenching reflexively when his tongue brushed the swollen head. He began lapping eagerly, his own fingers digging almost painfully on Wilson’s thighs.

When House took him into his mouth, Wilson cried out with a shudder.

He didn’t last long, not after he’d wanted this for about forever. He thrust violently a few times, before he came with a low whining sound that made House’s own arousal spike considerably. Stumbling backwards, Wilson somehow ended up on the floor, staring wide eyed and wondering how and why.

He forgot about it when he caught sight of House staring down at him, feral and hungry, with a small trail of semen dripping down the corner of his mouth.

Wilson swore silently, before he reached out for the erection hiding under denim; he wanted the man close to him, flesh to flesh, to make it real. He wanted to feel House under, around, above; to have the privilege of touching and being touched in return.

Sardonically, he noted the rash was gone, but it didn’t matter – now he had something far worse hiding under his very skin… something that liked to go around by the name of House.