As Good A Time As Any, h/w fic
Title: As Good A Time As Any
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG
Word Count: 950
Summary: coda for “C-Word” just in case we didn’t have enough! :) which ignores anything that may or may not have happened since. (I kind of want this episode to live in its own little beautiful, undisturbed bubble.) Weird, melancholy mood in here - and it touches on things that are already done - but I needed to write it. ♥
Cross-posted to house_wilson.
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine, not even a little.
“I need a shower,” Wilson announces with a grimace as he pushes to his feet.
His strength is returning, slowly, but House’s is not. (A lack of pain pills is something he’s dealt with often enough by now to know the routine, but his body still hates him - viciously - each time he’s forced to go without.)
“You do,” House agrees from where he’s slouched on the sofa, palm absently rubbing his thigh.
“Why don’t you go lie down?” Wilson asks, bordering on exasperated.
House grunts in response, eyes closed. He expects Wilson has his hands on his hips and that’s enough to make him grin. House wants to comment on his remarkably fast transition from patient to mothering hen, but he refrains.
“Come here,” Wilson mutters.
House can’t argue with Wilson’s idea, so he lets himself be hauled to his feet and they begin the awkward shuffle down the hall once again. (They fit better this way, though, with Wilson’s arm under his shoulder.)
“I can make it from here,” House says, urging Wilson away when they reach the bathroom door.
He leans against the wall for a moment to give his leg a rest. He waits to hear the squeaky turn of the hot water handle… and finds he cannot move away. He doesn’t have the strength (or the will) and so he leans there, shoulder digging into the doorframe, listening to the steady spray of the shower.
He is suddenly, painfully aware of how tired he is. Beyond his leg, he feels a deep, aching exhaustion. It’s physical, yes, but not only. He’s spent the past days watching Wilson fight and beg for his life (or his death, House can’t be sure) and now he feels like he’s earned all those insults Wilson threw at him because he truly didn’t realize it would hurt that much - being the one who had to watch.
He thinks he owes Wilson more apologies than he cares to count.
When Wilson finally emerges, a wave of heat and steam following him as he opens the door, House is still there. He grabs hold of Wilson’s arm to steady himself, but that’s not enough, so he goes further, pressing his face to Wilson’s shoulder and breathing in the clean scent as he leans into him.
Wilson’s arms come up immediately to wrap around him. (House blames their mutual exhaustion as the excuse for why they gravitate toward one another like this.) It’s not a hug, somehow, but he’s standing there, holding House and it’s the strangest thing, yet it’s not strange at all.
“Couldn’t make it to my room,” House confesses, his words muffled in Wilson’s (his) shirt.
“You’re an idiot,” Wilson says fondly, lifting House’s head to look at him, and all House can do is let out an odd laugh.
He leans forward and rubs their noses together, their breath mingling in the barest of space between their lips. Wilson’s palm presses gently to House’s side, steadying.
“Bed,” Wilson says wearily, the word exhaled softly against the corner of House’s mouth.
“Yeah,” he breathes back, knowing Wilson means to sleep (neither of them could do more than that) but the word still has a certain warmth to it.
Arms around each other (again), they make it there. As Wilson disentangles himself and looks for a moment like he might leave, House grips his elbow and holds, just enough to stop him.
Stay. I don’t want you on that couch. Not tonight.
He only manages to nod his head toward the bed, a silent invitation. Wilson pauses for a moment. The lines around his eyes shift and House thinks it might be the beginning of a smile. He’ll take whatever he can get.
Once he’s on the bed, he finally has a chance to look at Wilson, curled up beside him. His eyes are a little brighter and some of his color’s returned. House’s gaze catches on the sight of his cracked, chapped lips. He licks his own in sympathy and sees how Wilson watches the motion.
House brings his fingers up to brush against the stubble on Wilson’s jaw.
“You didn’t shave,” he states, unnecessarily.
Wilson shakes his head, as if the statement wasn’t obvious, and just replies, “Shower was enough for now.”
House hums in agreement, though he’s not quite sure why. Wilson’s hand is toying with the hem of his t-shirt, pulling and bunching the fabric absently, and House can’t quite think straight, but he thinks he understands what they’re telling each other.
He closes his eyes and lets out a deep breath. So much time, so many mistakes… he wonders if they could’ve gotten here (together) any other way.
“I'm sorry,” he blurts out.
Wilson frowns at him but House merely shrugs.
“All this, it just… It seemed as good a time as any to say it.”
Wilson shifts a bit and manages to fit them together - legs, arms, hands - in a way that passes for comfortable. (House mostly lets Wilson figure it out; he’s always been better at this.)
“Thanks,” Wilson answers at last.
“I hope this works,” he adds a moment later, a hint of doubt and fear creeping into the words.
“Me too,” House agrees. “Otherwise we could’ve spent this vacation at a strip club, or a nude beach, or somewhere with an equally impressive view.”
It earns a small, quick laugh from Wilson, and it’s enough.
Wilson’s fingers brush up against his. “Nude beaches, huh?”
“Spring break,” House reminds him, wedging a knee between Wilson’s.
“Maybe next time,” Wilson offers and House falls asleep imagining a (mostly) deserted beach and the feel of waves lapping at his (their) feet.
.
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG
Word Count: 950
Summary: coda for “C-Word” just in case we didn’t have enough! :) which ignores anything that may or may not have happened since. (I kind of want this episode to live in its own little beautiful, undisturbed bubble.) Weird, melancholy mood in here - and it touches on things that are already done - but I needed to write it. ♥
Cross-posted to house_wilson.
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine, not even a little.
“I need a shower,” Wilson announces with a grimace as he pushes to his feet.
His strength is returning, slowly, but House’s is not. (A lack of pain pills is something he’s dealt with often enough by now to know the routine, but his body still hates him - viciously - each time he’s forced to go without.)
“You do,” House agrees from where he’s slouched on the sofa, palm absently rubbing his thigh.
“Why don’t you go lie down?” Wilson asks, bordering on exasperated.
House grunts in response, eyes closed. He expects Wilson has his hands on his hips and that’s enough to make him grin. House wants to comment on his remarkably fast transition from patient to mothering hen, but he refrains.
“Come here,” Wilson mutters.
House can’t argue with Wilson’s idea, so he lets himself be hauled to his feet and they begin the awkward shuffle down the hall once again. (They fit better this way, though, with Wilson’s arm under his shoulder.)
“I can make it from here,” House says, urging Wilson away when they reach the bathroom door.
He leans against the wall for a moment to give his leg a rest. He waits to hear the squeaky turn of the hot water handle… and finds he cannot move away. He doesn’t have the strength (or the will) and so he leans there, shoulder digging into the doorframe, listening to the steady spray of the shower.
He is suddenly, painfully aware of how tired he is. Beyond his leg, he feels a deep, aching exhaustion. It’s physical, yes, but not only. He’s spent the past days watching Wilson fight and beg for his life (or his death, House can’t be sure) and now he feels like he’s earned all those insults Wilson threw at him because he truly didn’t realize it would hurt that much - being the one who had to watch.
He thinks he owes Wilson more apologies than he cares to count.
When Wilson finally emerges, a wave of heat and steam following him as he opens the door, House is still there. He grabs hold of Wilson’s arm to steady himself, but that’s not enough, so he goes further, pressing his face to Wilson’s shoulder and breathing in the clean scent as he leans into him.
Wilson’s arms come up immediately to wrap around him. (House blames their mutual exhaustion as the excuse for why they gravitate toward one another like this.) It’s not a hug, somehow, but he’s standing there, holding House and it’s the strangest thing, yet it’s not strange at all.
“Couldn’t make it to my room,” House confesses, his words muffled in Wilson’s (his) shirt.
“You’re an idiot,” Wilson says fondly, lifting House’s head to look at him, and all House can do is let out an odd laugh.
He leans forward and rubs their noses together, their breath mingling in the barest of space between their lips. Wilson’s palm presses gently to House’s side, steadying.
“Bed,” Wilson says wearily, the word exhaled softly against the corner of House’s mouth.
“Yeah,” he breathes back, knowing Wilson means to sleep (neither of them could do more than that) but the word still has a certain warmth to it.
Arms around each other (again), they make it there. As Wilson disentangles himself and looks for a moment like he might leave, House grips his elbow and holds, just enough to stop him.
Stay. I don’t want you on that couch. Not tonight.
He only manages to nod his head toward the bed, a silent invitation. Wilson pauses for a moment. The lines around his eyes shift and House thinks it might be the beginning of a smile. He’ll take whatever he can get.
Once he’s on the bed, he finally has a chance to look at Wilson, curled up beside him. His eyes are a little brighter and some of his color’s returned. House’s gaze catches on the sight of his cracked, chapped lips. He licks his own in sympathy and sees how Wilson watches the motion.
House brings his fingers up to brush against the stubble on Wilson’s jaw.
“You didn’t shave,” he states, unnecessarily.
Wilson shakes his head, as if the statement wasn’t obvious, and just replies, “Shower was enough for now.”
House hums in agreement, though he’s not quite sure why. Wilson’s hand is toying with the hem of his t-shirt, pulling and bunching the fabric absently, and House can’t quite think straight, but he thinks he understands what they’re telling each other.
He closes his eyes and lets out a deep breath. So much time, so many mistakes… he wonders if they could’ve gotten here (together) any other way.
“I'm sorry,” he blurts out.
Wilson frowns at him but House merely shrugs.
“All this, it just… It seemed as good a time as any to say it.”
Wilson shifts a bit and manages to fit them together - legs, arms, hands - in a way that passes for comfortable. (House mostly lets Wilson figure it out; he’s always been better at this.)
“Thanks,” Wilson answers at last.
“I hope this works,” he adds a moment later, a hint of doubt and fear creeping into the words.
“Me too,” House agrees. “Otherwise we could’ve spent this vacation at a strip club, or a nude beach, or somewhere with an equally impressive view.”
It earns a small, quick laugh from Wilson, and it’s enough.
Wilson’s fingers brush up against his. “Nude beaches, huh?”
“Spring break,” House reminds him, wedging a knee between Wilson’s.
“Maybe next time,” Wilson offers and House falls asleep imagining a (mostly) deserted beach and the feel of waves lapping at his (their) feet.
.