Unrelenting, part 2
Unrelenting
Ten minutes later Wilson returned to the bedroom. House was still lying on his side, waiting to see how long, if, the medication was going to take to start working. The muscle still screamed at him, stabbing pains running up and down the thigh making the remaining tissue jump and twitch on its own. Wilson stood at the doorway for a minute, silent, until House finally looked around at him and frowned.
“Are you going to come in or just stand there and watch? This isn’t exactly a spectator sport, you know.”
“I called the pizza place. Turns out they deliver pasta too. I have two orders of spaghetti Bolognese coming, probably in about 15 minutes. Will that do you?”
“Sure, fine. Doesn’t matter much, I’m not hungry.”
“You still need to eat,” Wilson replied. The man was nothing if not stubborn. “Feel anything? Any better?”
“Not yet, no. I don’t think so.” House paused, his hand still working at the twitchy muscle. “I thought you were getting some dinner?” He said finally, glancing at Wilson still in the doorway.
“It’s coming, House, I said that, I just phoned … Wait, don’t you remember?” Wilson peered at him carefully, approaching the bed. “We just talked about that. Spaghetti. Being delivered.”
“Oh, right. Yeah.” House closed his eyes again, his hand slowing down on his thigh. Suddenly he felt the bed dip behind him as Wilson sat down, and his hand being gently moved off his leg as Wilson’s hands took over massaging the muscle, trying to get it to stop its cramping. Up and down he felt Wilson’s hands moving, softly pushing his fingers into the muscle and stroking. Finally, finally, the muscle began to loosen up, and House nearly cried with relief as the bolts of pain began to lessen and finally stopped their constant barrage, slowing down to only occasional hits.
The door bell rang and Wilson left the bed to go pay for the food. By the time he had dished it out on to plates and put the plates on a tray, House was nearly asleep.
“Dinner’s served,” Wilson sang out as he brought the tray into the bedroom. House jerked a little and woke up. “Oops, sorry,” Wilson whispered.
“Why worry about whispering now?” House grouched. “I’m already awake.”
“Right. Sorry,” Wilson replied. He laid the tray gently on the bed. “Here. Eat.” He picked up his own fork and started winding the noodles around it.
House watched as Wilson slurped the end of a noodle into his mouth. He was foggy, he could feel it, and for a moment he was lost in the vision of the noodle disappearing between Wilson’s lips, red lips, soft lips lips that kiss kiss want to kiss those lips…
“Hey,” Wilson’s voice sounded like it was coming from across a field. “Hey, you in there?”
House shut his eyes hard and opened them again. He blinked a couple of times and shook his head a little. “Uh huh…”
“Good. Eat at least a few bites of this. Obviously the tramadol is starting to work,” he grinned.
House picked up the fork and started eating slowly. He managed about four bites of spaghetti before he forgot what he was doing and just stared at the fork for a minute. Wilson chuckled softly and took the fork out of his hand. He cleared away the dishes and took them to the kitchen, returning with a glass of water that he set on the night-stand.
“Okay, I think you’re going to be out for a while, huh? I don’t think I should leave for a little while at least, not while you’re doped up like this.”
House merely stared at the place where his fork had been.
“Hello? You listening to me?” Wilson sat back down on the bed and waved his hand in front of House’s eyes.
“What?” House brought his eyes up to Wilson’s face again, then let his head drop down to the pillow.
“I said I think I should stay for a little while. What do you think?” Wilson asked again.
“Yeah, stay,” House said, voice breathy and soft, eyes sliding closed.
“Okay, I’ll be in the living room if you need me.” Wilson shifted to get up from the bed, but House’s hand landed clumsily on his leg and his fingers crawled up Wilson’s body until he reached the loose fabric of his shirt billowing out from the waistband of his pants. House pinched the fabric between two fingers and plucked at it, pulling it toward himself.
“Stay…” he breathed, pulling again at Wilson’s shirt.
“Okay, okay, you don’t have to undress me,” Wilson said as he toed off his shoes and pulled at his tie. “I’ll stay if you want me to.” He pulled a pillow toward himself and settled back against the headboard.
“Undress … ‘sfine … ‘sgood,” House slurred. He forced his eyes open and looked blearily up at Wilson, sitting on his bed. “Can if you want,” he said.
Wilson snorted a laugh. “No, thanks, that’s fine.” He glanced down at the ruined thigh. “How’s the pain now?”
“’Sfine…” House said again. “Doesn’t hurt much at all now.” Again he plucked at Wilson’s shirt. “Why a shirt?” he asked.
“Why … what do you mean, why a shirt? Why do I wear a shirt? So I don’t go around naked.” Wilson smiled as he answered.
“No, why always buttons?” House frowned slightly at his own words, confusing even himself. “Why always a shirt with buttons? So formal. Never relax. Need to relax sometimes. Need to take off the shirt sometimes.”
“You are so high,” Wilson laughed. “Fine. Will it make you happy if I take off the shirt?”
House frowned again. “No.” He kept tugging at it. Wilson sighed and started on the buttons, finally pulling it off and folding it, letting it drop to the floor. House’s eyes slid closed again, but his fingers made their way up Wilson’s body again to his undershirt and he latched on to it, wrapping his fingers with the hem, tugging softly again.
“No, House, I’m not taking off that one too,” Wilson protested.
“Kay…” House breathed, still tugging the hem of the shirt toward himself. His breathing slowed and deepened and Wilson watched as the muscles of his body, so tightly wound before when in the midst of unrelenting pain, relaxed and loosened, allowing his friend to finally sleep.
He waited a few more minutes and then attempted to gently extricate his shirt from House’s fingers, but every time he moved House clenched it tighter in his fist, not allowing Wilson any escape. He sighed and smiled slightly, then shifted himself downward on the bed until his head rested on the pillow, his shirt rucked up and held hostage in House’s hand, and let himself drop off to sleep too.
*****
House struggled to swim up from the swirling depths of the drug haze. He was comfortable, his leg didn’t hurt at all, and he was cuddled up against Wilson’s side, fingers entangled in the hem of Wilson’s undershirt. His face was pressed into Wilson’s neck, and the skin was moist where his breath brushed against it. Wait, what?
Wilson was attempting to move, that’s why he’d woken up. Without really knowing why, House tightened his arm and attempted to speak. He wanted Wilson to stay right where he was. What came out was merely a grunted “nuuh,” and a weak one at that.
“It’s okay, House,” Wilson whispered, “I just have to turn over. I’m not leaving.” This time House let him move when he shifted, but pulled him close again as soon as he had turned. Now he was pressed up against Wilson’s back, arm still over his waist.
Wilson grinned tiredly and laid his arm over House’s, entwining his fingers with the other man’s, and went back to sleep.
Ten minutes later Wilson returned to the bedroom. House was still lying on his side, waiting to see how long, if, the medication was going to take to start working. The muscle still screamed at him, stabbing pains running up and down the thigh making the remaining tissue jump and twitch on its own. Wilson stood at the doorway for a minute, silent, until House finally looked around at him and frowned.
“Are you going to come in or just stand there and watch? This isn’t exactly a spectator sport, you know.”
“I called the pizza place. Turns out they deliver pasta too. I have two orders of spaghetti Bolognese coming, probably in about 15 minutes. Will that do you?”
“Sure, fine. Doesn’t matter much, I’m not hungry.”
“You still need to eat,” Wilson replied. The man was nothing if not stubborn. “Feel anything? Any better?”
“Not yet, no. I don’t think so.” House paused, his hand still working at the twitchy muscle. “I thought you were getting some dinner?” He said finally, glancing at Wilson still in the doorway.
“It’s coming, House, I said that, I just phoned … Wait, don’t you remember?” Wilson peered at him carefully, approaching the bed. “We just talked about that. Spaghetti. Being delivered.”
“Oh, right. Yeah.” House closed his eyes again, his hand slowing down on his thigh. Suddenly he felt the bed dip behind him as Wilson sat down, and his hand being gently moved off his leg as Wilson’s hands took over massaging the muscle, trying to get it to stop its cramping. Up and down he felt Wilson’s hands moving, softly pushing his fingers into the muscle and stroking. Finally, finally, the muscle began to loosen up, and House nearly cried with relief as the bolts of pain began to lessen and finally stopped their constant barrage, slowing down to only occasional hits.
The door bell rang and Wilson left the bed to go pay for the food. By the time he had dished it out on to plates and put the plates on a tray, House was nearly asleep.
“Dinner’s served,” Wilson sang out as he brought the tray into the bedroom. House jerked a little and woke up. “Oops, sorry,” Wilson whispered.
“Why worry about whispering now?” House grouched. “I’m already awake.”
“Right. Sorry,” Wilson replied. He laid the tray gently on the bed. “Here. Eat.” He picked up his own fork and started winding the noodles around it.
House watched as Wilson slurped the end of a noodle into his mouth. He was foggy, he could feel it, and for a moment he was lost in the vision of the noodle disappearing between Wilson’s lips, red lips, soft lips lips that kiss kiss want to kiss those lips…
“Hey,” Wilson’s voice sounded like it was coming from across a field. “Hey, you in there?”
House shut his eyes hard and opened them again. He blinked a couple of times and shook his head a little. “Uh huh…”
“Good. Eat at least a few bites of this. Obviously the tramadol is starting to work,” he grinned.
House picked up the fork and started eating slowly. He managed about four bites of spaghetti before he forgot what he was doing and just stared at the fork for a minute. Wilson chuckled softly and took the fork out of his hand. He cleared away the dishes and took them to the kitchen, returning with a glass of water that he set on the night-stand.
“Okay, I think you’re going to be out for a while, huh? I don’t think I should leave for a little while at least, not while you’re doped up like this.”
House merely stared at the place where his fork had been.
“Hello? You listening to me?” Wilson sat back down on the bed and waved his hand in front of House’s eyes.
“What?” House brought his eyes up to Wilson’s face again, then let his head drop down to the pillow.
“I said I think I should stay for a little while. What do you think?” Wilson asked again.
“Yeah, stay,” House said, voice breathy and soft, eyes sliding closed.
“Okay, I’ll be in the living room if you need me.” Wilson shifted to get up from the bed, but House’s hand landed clumsily on his leg and his fingers crawled up Wilson’s body until he reached the loose fabric of his shirt billowing out from the waistband of his pants. House pinched the fabric between two fingers and plucked at it, pulling it toward himself.
“Stay…” he breathed, pulling again at Wilson’s shirt.
“Okay, okay, you don’t have to undress me,” Wilson said as he toed off his shoes and pulled at his tie. “I’ll stay if you want me to.” He pulled a pillow toward himself and settled back against the headboard.
“Undress … ‘sfine … ‘sgood,” House slurred. He forced his eyes open and looked blearily up at Wilson, sitting on his bed. “Can if you want,” he said.
Wilson snorted a laugh. “No, thanks, that’s fine.” He glanced down at the ruined thigh. “How’s the pain now?”
“’Sfine…” House said again. “Doesn’t hurt much at all now.” Again he plucked at Wilson’s shirt. “Why a shirt?” he asked.
“Why … what do you mean, why a shirt? Why do I wear a shirt? So I don’t go around naked.” Wilson smiled as he answered.
“No, why always buttons?” House frowned slightly at his own words, confusing even himself. “Why always a shirt with buttons? So formal. Never relax. Need to relax sometimes. Need to take off the shirt sometimes.”
“You are so high,” Wilson laughed. “Fine. Will it make you happy if I take off the shirt?”
House frowned again. “No.” He kept tugging at it. Wilson sighed and started on the buttons, finally pulling it off and folding it, letting it drop to the floor. House’s eyes slid closed again, but his fingers made their way up Wilson’s body again to his undershirt and he latched on to it, wrapping his fingers with the hem, tugging softly again.
“No, House, I’m not taking off that one too,” Wilson protested.
“Kay…” House breathed, still tugging the hem of the shirt toward himself. His breathing slowed and deepened and Wilson watched as the muscles of his body, so tightly wound before when in the midst of unrelenting pain, relaxed and loosened, allowing his friend to finally sleep.
He waited a few more minutes and then attempted to gently extricate his shirt from House’s fingers, but every time he moved House clenched it tighter in his fist, not allowing Wilson any escape. He sighed and smiled slightly, then shifted himself downward on the bed until his head rested on the pillow, his shirt rucked up and held hostage in House’s hand, and let himself drop off to sleep too.
*****
House struggled to swim up from the swirling depths of the drug haze. He was comfortable, his leg didn’t hurt at all, and he was cuddled up against Wilson’s side, fingers entangled in the hem of Wilson’s undershirt. His face was pressed into Wilson’s neck, and the skin was moist where his breath brushed against it. Wait, what?
Wilson was attempting to move, that’s why he’d woken up. Without really knowing why, House tightened his arm and attempted to speak. He wanted Wilson to stay right where he was. What came out was merely a grunted “nuuh,” and a weak one at that.
“It’s okay, House,” Wilson whispered, “I just have to turn over. I’m not leaving.” This time House let him move when he shifted, but pulled him close again as soon as he had turned. Now he was pressed up against Wilson’s back, arm still over his waist.
Wilson grinned tiredly and laid his arm over House’s, entwining his fingers with the other man’s, and went back to sleep.