Heartbeats (House, House/Wilson)
Title: Heartbeats
Fandom: House
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG
Word Count: 858
Summary: Three moments in which House and Wilson are almost kind of functional.
Notes: I had a somewhat shit week, so here's some more about the weather.
i.
It rains, drip-drip-drip on the sidewalk, a fine mist, and House makes fun of Wilson's umbrella, black with a tinge of red at the tips.
"Not raining that hard," he says, flicking a finger one of the points, shaking a few stray drops loose. "Though I guess you don't want it to screw up your hair." He is resting on his cane, smirking, so at ease with himself in this moment that Wilson wants to freeze it, keep it for around for another rainy day. They are in the parking lot, almost close enough to touch, separated by the umbrella, an invisible boundary between the two of them.
Wilson wishes for a downpour, the kind that would soak House's hair, plastering it to his skin, that would leave large droplets sliding down House's face. He wants to press a hand to House's cheek, feel the wetness against his palm, lean forward and kiss rain-moist lips, the umbrella moving with him, shielding them from the rain.
The rain is too light for that, though, air still thick with humidity that is not falling from the sky, and House's skin is only slightly damp. Wilson leans forward and kisses him anyway, letting his arm and umbrella fall back so that he can feel the light tickle of mist on his face as he pulls their bodies together, lining them up, hip to hip, face to face.
ii.
He wakes in the early morning, sun slanting through the windows, warmer than it has been, but Wilson pulls himself deeper into the covers, pressing himself closer to the furnace he shares a bed with. It smells like clean, fresh rain on the ground, dry and crisp. A breeze floats through the room, rustling the drawn curtains. They don't have work today, and Wilson loves mornings like this, bright and clear, quiet with the barest hint of sound.
"Mmm," he hums against House's neck, letting the fine hairs there tickle his nose and mouth. He wraps an arm around House's waist, spooning, lining up their bodies easily, a feat learned through practice. House's t-shirt rides up, and Wilson presses a hand against the exposed skin. It's hot to the touch, and House grunts softly, almost under his breath. It's no secret that Wilson loves having someone else in his bed, and he thinks he likes this part the best, someone to hold, to touch, to care about, and House's body is warm and comfortable against his own.
"Go to sleep," House mumbles, but he pushes back slightly, bringing them closer together. Their feet tangle, and Wilson loves the feel of House's hairy legs, the way he can curl an ankle around a shin. "Fucking octopus," House says, his voice still raspy with sleep, his tone indulgent.
Wilson presses a kiss to the back of House's neck, right at the edge of the hairline, and House doesn't pull away.
iii.
Gray clouds like a white blanket over the world, just windy enough to toss Wilson's hair, and he doesn't even make an attempt to keep it in order as he stands just outside the door of the hospital, waiting for House to meet him there.
The world looks flat on days like this, bleached clean of color, except House, who is always vibrant and alive when Wilson looks at him, even when he's half-dead asleep in front of the television, mouth open, light snores drowned out by the late-night infomericals. There's something about him that Wilson cannot figure out, as much as he wants to, and maybe House isn't the only one who loves puzzles, because Wilson can never seem to keep himself away for long.
A hand at his shoulder, House's, and there's an eyebrow, a "are you done yet?" eyebrow, and Wilson shrugs. "Sorry to interrupt your inner monologue," House says, "but I kind of want to leave sometime this year." His cap is pulled over his eyes, shading them slightly, but Wilson can still see the impatience written all over his face.
Wilson smiles, in a way that he knows House finds comforting and irritating in turns, and says, "I don't know about that. There's this guy annoying me, and I think that if I stand in one place for long enough, he'll go away." A few strands of hair fall into his eyes, and he makes no move to push them back.
House's hand doesn't even twitch from its position on Wilson's shoulder, comforting and steady. "You know that never works," House says. "I thought you would have learned that by now." He's scowling, a mocking twist at the edge of his lips, eyes narrow and sharp, and Wilson could almost believe that House really means it the way he wants it to mean.
But he knows better, knows all the things that are hidden under the surface, all the things that House can't say, all the things Wilson will never make him say. They start walking toward the car, sniping at each other, and Wilson lets, I love you, too, linger under every word, every touch.
FIN.
Fandom: House
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG
Word Count: 858
Summary: Three moments in which House and Wilson are almost kind of functional.
Notes: I had a somewhat shit week, so here's some more about the weather.
i.
It rains, drip-drip-drip on the sidewalk, a fine mist, and House makes fun of Wilson's umbrella, black with a tinge of red at the tips.
"Not raining that hard," he says, flicking a finger one of the points, shaking a few stray drops loose. "Though I guess you don't want it to screw up your hair." He is resting on his cane, smirking, so at ease with himself in this moment that Wilson wants to freeze it, keep it for around for another rainy day. They are in the parking lot, almost close enough to touch, separated by the umbrella, an invisible boundary between the two of them.
Wilson wishes for a downpour, the kind that would soak House's hair, plastering it to his skin, that would leave large droplets sliding down House's face. He wants to press a hand to House's cheek, feel the wetness against his palm, lean forward and kiss rain-moist lips, the umbrella moving with him, shielding them from the rain.
The rain is too light for that, though, air still thick with humidity that is not falling from the sky, and House's skin is only slightly damp. Wilson leans forward and kisses him anyway, letting his arm and umbrella fall back so that he can feel the light tickle of mist on his face as he pulls their bodies together, lining them up, hip to hip, face to face.
ii.
He wakes in the early morning, sun slanting through the windows, warmer than it has been, but Wilson pulls himself deeper into the covers, pressing himself closer to the furnace he shares a bed with. It smells like clean, fresh rain on the ground, dry and crisp. A breeze floats through the room, rustling the drawn curtains. They don't have work today, and Wilson loves mornings like this, bright and clear, quiet with the barest hint of sound.
"Mmm," he hums against House's neck, letting the fine hairs there tickle his nose and mouth. He wraps an arm around House's waist, spooning, lining up their bodies easily, a feat learned through practice. House's t-shirt rides up, and Wilson presses a hand against the exposed skin. It's hot to the touch, and House grunts softly, almost under his breath. It's no secret that Wilson loves having someone else in his bed, and he thinks he likes this part the best, someone to hold, to touch, to care about, and House's body is warm and comfortable against his own.
"Go to sleep," House mumbles, but he pushes back slightly, bringing them closer together. Their feet tangle, and Wilson loves the feel of House's hairy legs, the way he can curl an ankle around a shin. "Fucking octopus," House says, his voice still raspy with sleep, his tone indulgent.
Wilson presses a kiss to the back of House's neck, right at the edge of the hairline, and House doesn't pull away.
iii.
Gray clouds like a white blanket over the world, just windy enough to toss Wilson's hair, and he doesn't even make an attempt to keep it in order as he stands just outside the door of the hospital, waiting for House to meet him there.
The world looks flat on days like this, bleached clean of color, except House, who is always vibrant and alive when Wilson looks at him, even when he's half-dead asleep in front of the television, mouth open, light snores drowned out by the late-night infomericals. There's something about him that Wilson cannot figure out, as much as he wants to, and maybe House isn't the only one who loves puzzles, because Wilson can never seem to keep himself away for long.
A hand at his shoulder, House's, and there's an eyebrow, a "are you done yet?" eyebrow, and Wilson shrugs. "Sorry to interrupt your inner monologue," House says, "but I kind of want to leave sometime this year." His cap is pulled over his eyes, shading them slightly, but Wilson can still see the impatience written all over his face.
Wilson smiles, in a way that he knows House finds comforting and irritating in turns, and says, "I don't know about that. There's this guy annoying me, and I think that if I stand in one place for long enough, he'll go away." A few strands of hair fall into his eyes, and he makes no move to push them back.
House's hand doesn't even twitch from its position on Wilson's shoulder, comforting and steady. "You know that never works," House says. "I thought you would have learned that by now." He's scowling, a mocking twist at the edge of his lips, eyes narrow and sharp, and Wilson could almost believe that House really means it the way he wants it to mean.
But he knows better, knows all the things that are hidden under the surface, all the things that House can't say, all the things Wilson will never make him say. They start walking toward the car, sniping at each other, and Wilson lets, I love you, too, linger under every word, every touch.
FIN.