House waited, trying to do every single thing he could not to give himself away. He hoped Wilson wouldn't look too hard, wouldn't find something that caught his eye. Jesus, how did he even look when he was in pain? He'd never studied himself in a damn mirror. He wasn't a fucking actor. Granted, there was pain, and he didn't have to act that. He just hoped it would be enough for Wilson to buy. Be snippy. His usual self. Nothing different. Nothing new. Like what was in his closet. His fucking closet.

He didn't even look up when he heard Wilson's footsteps, saw Wilson's feet come into view on the floor. When Wilson spoke, House flicked his eyes up to meet Wilson's gaze without raising his chin, trying to channel all his frustration into his expression. He rubbed at his leg as an extra show. Not that it didn't help the pain that was already there. He wondered if Wilson could smell Foreman, sniff him out like a bloodhound, if he could smell the latex or sex or semen. If he could--fuck, how could he have fucking forgotten about his own fucking semen on his own fucking stomach, Jesus Christ--see it on him. House stood up and turned his back on Wilson, walked to his dresser and pulled out a t-shirt--black, nothing that would give away a little wetness very easily. "Cuddy got the memo," House said, pulling the shirt over his head before turning back to face Wilson, "when she ordered a team of surgeons to cut out a chunk of my leg. Missing muscle. Lots of pain. I think she knows about it." Cripple comments usually made Wilson shut up, or leave. Usually. Sometimes. It was worth a shot. "So do you."