WIP Amnesty, Day 14
More characterization-by-wishful-thinking from my sojourn in House. This one, I think, comes from the patch I went through where the chronic sleep deprivation started leaking all over my writing, and all stories ended happily in the sense that the protagonists got to go to sleep at the end. This one also foundered and died on my inability to write House/Wilson porn; after this I gave it up as a bad job and moved on to less intimidating pairings. *g*
House/Wilson. Pre-series. Improbably nice.
Raveled
Waking to a hand on his stomach, James reached out and caught the attached arm, pushing up on his opposite elbow as he forced his eyes open. Blinking in the half-darkness--where was he? What time was it?--it took him a moment to identify House standing over him, House's hand spread against his belly and held in place by James's grip on his arm.
James didn't let go of his arm, though he relaxed a little. "House?"
House squinted at him. "Are you hiding?"
James looked around, trying to get his bearings, dizzy with exhaustion and interrupted sleep. He was lying on a gurney--there were two or three others alongside it, and shelves stocked with supplies, but it wasn't the familiar storage room of the Oncology ward. He turned his head, rubbing his eyes against his shoulder, stalling.
"You're in third floor storage, off Maternity, sleeping on a gurney," House informed him, a hint of humor in his dry voice.
"Not sleeping anymore," James muttered, wondering why he still hadn't let go of House's arm, "but, yes, clearly I am hiding. Not well enough." He didn't remember coming here, but his body must have staged a revolt, gone back to the instincts of sleep-deprived internship and found a safe hidden space to catch some rest.
House's trapped hand patted him. "Well, you haven't left the hospital in three days, and Cuddy told me to find you and send you home."
James looked up at him then, steadying himself against the sudden recollection of the last three days. His eyes were finally working well enough that he could see the small wry smile on House's face, and he focused on that. "And you listened?"
House shrugged. "I happened to agree with her recommendation. Come on."
"You don't have to--" James said, ducking his head. Don't send me home. Home to the silent house he shared with the woman they both knew was no more nor less than still his wife, so far? The hospital was more his home than that, even this dim quiet room on the third floor. "I don't--" he started, more weakly, trailing into silence. Even in the dark, even to House, he couldn't quite say it. Don't make me go back there.
"Ah," House said, very quietly, and James turned his head further, hunching his shoulders. He wanted to lay back down, roll over, go back to sleep--he hadn't slept in days, except this interrupted catnap--but he couldn't, with House here, touching him, leaning over him. He couldn't hide without at least a little head start, and House wasn't giving it to him now. "Look," House said, and his other hand was on James's back--House using two hands, that meant something, but he couldn't think what. "Sit up," House said, and James sat up.
The motion put him face-to-face with House, just a breath apart, his hand on House's arm and House's hands on him, front and back, steadying.
It meant House had let go of his cane. James blinked and opened his mouth to say something, and House's mouth was open, too. Whatever House was going to say about sending James home to his wife, he didn't want to hear it. He couldn't think of a better way to avoid hearing it than to lean forward and kiss House, so he leaned forward and kissed House.
House's mouth stayed open against his, and House's hand clenched in James's shirt, tugging him closer yet, House's tongue sliding slickly against his. It made perfect dream-logical sense. It was House, and House had found him here, and--
An unfamiliar voice calling out an unfamiliar code over the PA startled them apart; James caught at House as he stumbled, and House turned under his grasping hands, boosting himself up to perch on the edge of the gurney with his hip pressed close against James's thigh. James stared at the ceiling speaker, still trying to comprehend the strange code-call, wondering if sleep deprivation could cause aphasia, or this tingling in his lips.
"Not your ward," House said. "Nobody's calling for you."
James blinked. Right. Maternity. Different nurses on the PA, different codes. Abruptly recalling himself, he reached for his pager, but House caught his hand. "Nobody's called you. Nobody's looking for you except me."
James nodded stiffly, and didn't pull his hand from the warmth of House's grip. His voice was steady and neutral when he spoke. "To send me home."
"Well, Cuddy didn't actually say 'send'," House murmured. His fingers stroked against James's palm, waking him up more certainly than any nurse's call. "She told me to take you home, actually, which could mean any number of things. Terrible thing, imprecise language."
"Oh," James said, thinking of the quiet refuge of House's place as he wound his fingers into House's shirt. "Well."
House's fingers touched his face, tipping his chin up, forcing James to meet his gaze. James looked, just for a moment, and then he closed his eyes, leaning against House's shoulder as they kissed again, open-mouthed and sleepy-slow. Finally House said, "Come on, let me take you home," the words brushing James's mouth.
James nodded and reached behind him to where House's cane was hooked on the edge of the gurney and handed it to him. House smiled a little as he took it, and squeezed James's hand before he let go.
The hospital was eerily bright and quiet. James saw a clock showing the time was just before six, but the corridors seemed unusually deserted. The clinic was empty as they walked past, and it was dark and cold outside. Winter. Short, miserable days that stretched forever while he stayed inside the hospital, performing surgery after surgery, delivering bad news and then worse news to patients and families, covering for two of his doctors and, in those brief moments of downtime when he might have gone home, holing up in his office to research better treatments or handle paperwork. There was nothing waiting for him at home, after all, not even a bed he'd be comfortable sleeping in, so he'd just kept going until his body took over and found him a gurney and a storage room. And then House took over, and found him, and the day sank into darkness and ended at last.
James dozed in the passenger seat, vaguely aware that House was driving slowly and carefully, as though he had something fragile in the car with him.
He woke when the car stopped, and stepped out only to stand dazed and blinking in broad daylight, as disoriented as when the PA call had brought him back to reality from House's kiss in the dark. That all seemed like a dream now, but then so did this. He looked around, lost, until House's voice said, "It's called sunrise. It happens about this time every day."
James blinked, turning to look at House standing on the other side of the car in the slanting golden sunlight. He looked utterly normal, utterly real in the new day's dawn. The light made his blue eyes bright, and there was a small smile tucked into the corner of his mouth, and James thought he could navigate safely through the fog of his own confusion if House would just stand there and talk to him.
"Come on," House said. "Inside. Cuddy didn't tell me to drag you out of the hospital and leave you on the curb."
He followed House up the walk and waited for him to open the door. The cluttered living room was tiger striped in sunlight through the blinds. It smelled faintly of cigar smoke and dusty furnace ducts, and it looked like someplace James could hide--someplace he could sleep--for a week.
"There," House said, from a little way away, somewhere beyond arm's reach, "Consider yourself taken home." James nodded vacantly, eyeing the couch--it was a little short, and the springs poked in odd places, but he wasn't at all certain that he cared--and then House said, softly, "You could have come here, if you couldn't go home. There's a bed free eighteen hours a day. You have a key."
It was true; he had a key. It had appeared in his staff mailbox, with a curtly-worded note whose subtext he'd easily interpreted as I'm embarrassed to have to ask, years before, and stayed on his keychain, unused, ever since. "It's only for emergencies," he said, finally tearing his eyes from the couch as House closed the small distance between them.
"Anything that drives you to stay awake and at work for three days rather than go home and face it qualifies as an emergency," House said, but James could read I want you here if there's nowhere else you'd rather be behind the words, even in his present state. He set his palm against House's cheek, stubble prickling his skin, and kissed him again. House's mouth was soft and open under his, House's hand rested easily on his shoulder, unsurprised; James really hadn't dreamed it. House's arm went around him, pulling James close, fitting them neatly together.
House/Wilson. Pre-series. Improbably nice.
Raveled
Waking to a hand on his stomach, James reached out and caught the attached arm, pushing up on his opposite elbow as he forced his eyes open. Blinking in the half-darkness--where was he? What time was it?--it took him a moment to identify House standing over him, House's hand spread against his belly and held in place by James's grip on his arm.
James didn't let go of his arm, though he relaxed a little. "House?"
House squinted at him. "Are you hiding?"
James looked around, trying to get his bearings, dizzy with exhaustion and interrupted sleep. He was lying on a gurney--there were two or three others alongside it, and shelves stocked with supplies, but it wasn't the familiar storage room of the Oncology ward. He turned his head, rubbing his eyes against his shoulder, stalling.
"You're in third floor storage, off Maternity, sleeping on a gurney," House informed him, a hint of humor in his dry voice.
"Not sleeping anymore," James muttered, wondering why he still hadn't let go of House's arm, "but, yes, clearly I am hiding. Not well enough." He didn't remember coming here, but his body must have staged a revolt, gone back to the instincts of sleep-deprived internship and found a safe hidden space to catch some rest.
House's trapped hand patted him. "Well, you haven't left the hospital in three days, and Cuddy told me to find you and send you home."
James looked up at him then, steadying himself against the sudden recollection of the last three days. His eyes were finally working well enough that he could see the small wry smile on House's face, and he focused on that. "And you listened?"
House shrugged. "I happened to agree with her recommendation. Come on."
"You don't have to--" James said, ducking his head. Don't send me home. Home to the silent house he shared with the woman they both knew was no more nor less than still his wife, so far? The hospital was more his home than that, even this dim quiet room on the third floor. "I don't--" he started, more weakly, trailing into silence. Even in the dark, even to House, he couldn't quite say it. Don't make me go back there.
"Ah," House said, very quietly, and James turned his head further, hunching his shoulders. He wanted to lay back down, roll over, go back to sleep--he hadn't slept in days, except this interrupted catnap--but he couldn't, with House here, touching him, leaning over him. He couldn't hide without at least a little head start, and House wasn't giving it to him now. "Look," House said, and his other hand was on James's back--House using two hands, that meant something, but he couldn't think what. "Sit up," House said, and James sat up.
The motion put him face-to-face with House, just a breath apart, his hand on House's arm and House's hands on him, front and back, steadying.
It meant House had let go of his cane. James blinked and opened his mouth to say something, and House's mouth was open, too. Whatever House was going to say about sending James home to his wife, he didn't want to hear it. He couldn't think of a better way to avoid hearing it than to lean forward and kiss House, so he leaned forward and kissed House.
House's mouth stayed open against his, and House's hand clenched in James's shirt, tugging him closer yet, House's tongue sliding slickly against his. It made perfect dream-logical sense. It was House, and House had found him here, and--
An unfamiliar voice calling out an unfamiliar code over the PA startled them apart; James caught at House as he stumbled, and House turned under his grasping hands, boosting himself up to perch on the edge of the gurney with his hip pressed close against James's thigh. James stared at the ceiling speaker, still trying to comprehend the strange code-call, wondering if sleep deprivation could cause aphasia, or this tingling in his lips.
"Not your ward," House said. "Nobody's calling for you."
James blinked. Right. Maternity. Different nurses on the PA, different codes. Abruptly recalling himself, he reached for his pager, but House caught his hand. "Nobody's called you. Nobody's looking for you except me."
James nodded stiffly, and didn't pull his hand from the warmth of House's grip. His voice was steady and neutral when he spoke. "To send me home."
"Well, Cuddy didn't actually say 'send'," House murmured. His fingers stroked against James's palm, waking him up more certainly than any nurse's call. "She told me to take you home, actually, which could mean any number of things. Terrible thing, imprecise language."
"Oh," James said, thinking of the quiet refuge of House's place as he wound his fingers into House's shirt. "Well."
House's fingers touched his face, tipping his chin up, forcing James to meet his gaze. James looked, just for a moment, and then he closed his eyes, leaning against House's shoulder as they kissed again, open-mouthed and sleepy-slow. Finally House said, "Come on, let me take you home," the words brushing James's mouth.
James nodded and reached behind him to where House's cane was hooked on the edge of the gurney and handed it to him. House smiled a little as he took it, and squeezed James's hand before he let go.
The hospital was eerily bright and quiet. James saw a clock showing the time was just before six, but the corridors seemed unusually deserted. The clinic was empty as they walked past, and it was dark and cold outside. Winter. Short, miserable days that stretched forever while he stayed inside the hospital, performing surgery after surgery, delivering bad news and then worse news to patients and families, covering for two of his doctors and, in those brief moments of downtime when he might have gone home, holing up in his office to research better treatments or handle paperwork. There was nothing waiting for him at home, after all, not even a bed he'd be comfortable sleeping in, so he'd just kept going until his body took over and found him a gurney and a storage room. And then House took over, and found him, and the day sank into darkness and ended at last.
James dozed in the passenger seat, vaguely aware that House was driving slowly and carefully, as though he had something fragile in the car with him.
He woke when the car stopped, and stepped out only to stand dazed and blinking in broad daylight, as disoriented as when the PA call had brought him back to reality from House's kiss in the dark. That all seemed like a dream now, but then so did this. He looked around, lost, until House's voice said, "It's called sunrise. It happens about this time every day."
James blinked, turning to look at House standing on the other side of the car in the slanting golden sunlight. He looked utterly normal, utterly real in the new day's dawn. The light made his blue eyes bright, and there was a small smile tucked into the corner of his mouth, and James thought he could navigate safely through the fog of his own confusion if House would just stand there and talk to him.
"Come on," House said. "Inside. Cuddy didn't tell me to drag you out of the hospital and leave you on the curb."
He followed House up the walk and waited for him to open the door. The cluttered living room was tiger striped in sunlight through the blinds. It smelled faintly of cigar smoke and dusty furnace ducts, and it looked like someplace James could hide--someplace he could sleep--for a week.
"There," House said, from a little way away, somewhere beyond arm's reach, "Consider yourself taken home." James nodded vacantly, eyeing the couch--it was a little short, and the springs poked in odd places, but he wasn't at all certain that he cared--and then House said, softly, "You could have come here, if you couldn't go home. There's a bed free eighteen hours a day. You have a key."
It was true; he had a key. It had appeared in his staff mailbox, with a curtly-worded note whose subtext he'd easily interpreted as I'm embarrassed to have to ask, years before, and stayed on his keychain, unused, ever since. "It's only for emergencies," he said, finally tearing his eyes from the couch as House closed the small distance between them.
"Anything that drives you to stay awake and at work for three days rather than go home and face it qualifies as an emergency," House said, but James could read I want you here if there's nowhere else you'd rather be behind the words, even in his present state. He set his palm against House's cheek, stubble prickling his skin, and kissed him again. House's mouth was soft and open under his, House's hand rested easily on his shoulder, unsurprised; James really hadn't dreamed it. House's arm went around him, pulling James close, fitting them neatly together.