Penance
Summary: House wakes up one night to find Wilson in his bedroom after Wilson has a nightmare. Friendship and pre-slash.
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 1,183
Warning: Spoiler for Season 5 episodes "House's Head" and "Wilson's Heart".
Disclaimer: I'm weird, not crazy.
“House?”
Jolting awake, House groaned with annoyance and switched on the light. Much to his dismay, Wilson was standing in the doorway, clad only in a t-shirt and flannel cross-stitched pajama bottoms.
“What?” House snapped gruffly, making certain that Wilson knew he wasn’t taking this waking-up thing lightly. He barely got enough shuteye as it was due to his leg, and even then, it was usually restless. Wilson, apparently, seemed to forget that sleep was precious when most of your waking life was filled with pain.
“I’m sorry to…um, bother you, but…” Even as he stood there in his pathetic-looking attire, Wilson appeared genuinely guilty, as well as embarrassed.
“What? Had a bad dream?” House was not in the mood. He had nightmares himself, and dealing with his own terrifying, surreal visions was enough to make him want to sleep with the light on. (He would have, too, if he could only stop hearing the word ‘pussy’ spoken by the ghost of his late father sounding off every time he reached for the light.)
“Actually…” Wilson sighed and rubbed the back of his neck---a sure sign that there was trouble, as Wilson only rubbed his neck when he was anxious or afraid and didn’t know what else to do. It was a reflex move that had always irritated House; he was amazed that Wilson didn’t get a rash from all that rubbing. “Yeah, I did,” Wilson finally admitted, and House groaned inwardly; he didn’t feel like playing parent tonight, or any other night for that matter.
Yet there was Wilson, eyes silently pleading, looking like every bit a lost child and wanting the comfort that apparently he thought House was well-equipped to give.
“And you’re telling me why?” Reflexively House lazily rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, consciously aware that this was going to be a very long night whether he liked it or not---and it was already 1 am in the morning. He’d just dozed off only an hour before, and of course Wilson chose this very moment to disturb what little peaceful slumber he was allowed per night.
“Um…” Even in the dim light Wilson’s reddening face was visible. “I was…I kind of needed, to…” Wilson couldn’t seem to find the right words to finish the sentence, but his shy eyes were all that House needed to finish it for himself.
“I’m not your parent, Wilson,” House pointed out wearily. “I’m not going to sing you a lullaby and tuck you in….can’t you go drink some warm milk or something? I’m really tired, and I’ve got a patient, Cuddy’s wicked smart-mouth jabbing endlessly in my ear, not to mention untold clinic hours tomorrow to deal with.”
Wilson was silent for a long time, and for a moment House held his breath hoping that this was a sign that Wilson had given up. Instead, Wilson moved closer towards him, and when the light from the lamp on the night stand hit his face, House could see, to his instinctual horror, that he was shaking and a tear was sliding down one cheek.
“Wilson…” House’s words died on his lips and he looked away, knowing he wasn’t the right person at all for this, and what Wilson had in mind House had no idea. He knew House wasn’t the hugging type and, on top of that, he wasn’t the comforting type either. In order to avoid further awkwardness he was about to offer making them both some tea when Wilson spoke, his voice barely audible as his voice was so soft House had to strain to hear it.
“I know it’s stupid,” Wilson mumbled, and his voice was wet and trembled in spite of himself. “I…keep on seeing…her, and---and you, and… and that damned bus…” Fearing he would break down Wilson ran his hand over both eyes, quickly shielding his expression from House’s line of sight---an act for which House was grateful. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Wilson, knowing that the pain he would see there was a kind of pain he knew all too well---guilt, and helplessness, an anger that never a never-ending grief.
The space between them seemed to close in and expand at the same time as words rose and died on House’s lips; words that said: I know; It’s my fault; I’m sorry; Don’t be an idiot. Instead he found himself asking, shocking himself in the process: “Wilson---what can I do?”
A sob shook Wilson as he sat down on the edge of the bed, half on and half off, sitting hunched over like an old man. Without looking at House, Wilson said to the dark, “tell me you won’t leave?”
House could tell that Wilson was struggling even as he placed a soft hand on Wilson’s, and Wilson whirled towards him with shock, staring down at the hand and then up at House, unblinking, amazed. “You...touched me?” Wilson murmured, frozen in place as House nodded, never leaving his eyes off of Wilson.
For a moment neither spoke, then House broke their gaze and said to the bed, so softly that Wilson could hardly hear him, “I keep on seeing you on the bus instead of Amber.”
Wilson shuddered and, before he could think twice, threw his arms around House and held him silently for several seconds, stunned into speechlessness when House didn’t protest. They sat like that for some time until Wilson released and said, “It would really help me if you slept there,” and pointed at Amber’s side of the bed.
“What?” House seemed dazed as he stared at the empty space, fumbling desperately to clear his head. “you mean…”
“Yes,” Wilson whispered. “You asked what you can do…this,” Wilson said, leaning close to House’s ear, as he managed to choke out the last words, “this is what you can do.”
House sat with that for some time, watching the shadows play on the wall all around them, listening to the wind rustling in the trees. The room seemed peaceful, if not for Wilson being so close, seeming to calm his leg’s nerves just by being around him. “House…” Wilson whispered, urging, wanting.
In response, House, still wondering whether or not he was dreaming, lifted the covers and climbed into the bed. One by one Wilson’s grateful tears fell and landed on House’s own face, drying quickly as House placed his face on the pillow. Moments later, Wilson crawled into the bed with him, snuggling his head up against his House’s chest.
House knew this would not be the last night Wilson would be spending the night in his bed. Yet, strangely, he didn’t mind, as suddenly he did not feel so cold, and the pain in his leg began to dwindle to a pulsating throb that seemed to join in tandem to his beating heart.
The chill in the air slowly subsiding, the last thing House remembered before sleep closed in was the surprisingly soft touch of Wilson’s hair gracing his stubble, and the warmth of Wilson’s breath lulling him off into an almost peaceful slumber.
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 1,183
Warning: Spoiler for Season 5 episodes "House's Head" and "Wilson's Heart".
Disclaimer: I'm weird, not crazy.
“House?”
Jolting awake, House groaned with annoyance and switched on the light. Much to his dismay, Wilson was standing in the doorway, clad only in a t-shirt and flannel cross-stitched pajama bottoms.
“What?” House snapped gruffly, making certain that Wilson knew he wasn’t taking this waking-up thing lightly. He barely got enough shuteye as it was due to his leg, and even then, it was usually restless. Wilson, apparently, seemed to forget that sleep was precious when most of your waking life was filled with pain.
“I’m sorry to…um, bother you, but…” Even as he stood there in his pathetic-looking attire, Wilson appeared genuinely guilty, as well as embarrassed.
“What? Had a bad dream?” House was not in the mood. He had nightmares himself, and dealing with his own terrifying, surreal visions was enough to make him want to sleep with the light on. (He would have, too, if he could only stop hearing the word ‘pussy’ spoken by the ghost of his late father sounding off every time he reached for the light.)
“Actually…” Wilson sighed and rubbed the back of his neck---a sure sign that there was trouble, as Wilson only rubbed his neck when he was anxious or afraid and didn’t know what else to do. It was a reflex move that had always irritated House; he was amazed that Wilson didn’t get a rash from all that rubbing. “Yeah, I did,” Wilson finally admitted, and House groaned inwardly; he didn’t feel like playing parent tonight, or any other night for that matter.
Yet there was Wilson, eyes silently pleading, looking like every bit a lost child and wanting the comfort that apparently he thought House was well-equipped to give.
“And you’re telling me why?” Reflexively House lazily rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, consciously aware that this was going to be a very long night whether he liked it or not---and it was already 1 am in the morning. He’d just dozed off only an hour before, and of course Wilson chose this very moment to disturb what little peaceful slumber he was allowed per night.
“Um…” Even in the dim light Wilson’s reddening face was visible. “I was…I kind of needed, to…” Wilson couldn’t seem to find the right words to finish the sentence, but his shy eyes were all that House needed to finish it for himself.
“I’m not your parent, Wilson,” House pointed out wearily. “I’m not going to sing you a lullaby and tuck you in….can’t you go drink some warm milk or something? I’m really tired, and I’ve got a patient, Cuddy’s wicked smart-mouth jabbing endlessly in my ear, not to mention untold clinic hours tomorrow to deal with.”
Wilson was silent for a long time, and for a moment House held his breath hoping that this was a sign that Wilson had given up. Instead, Wilson moved closer towards him, and when the light from the lamp on the night stand hit his face, House could see, to his instinctual horror, that he was shaking and a tear was sliding down one cheek.
“Wilson…” House’s words died on his lips and he looked away, knowing he wasn’t the right person at all for this, and what Wilson had in mind House had no idea. He knew House wasn’t the hugging type and, on top of that, he wasn’t the comforting type either. In order to avoid further awkwardness he was about to offer making them both some tea when Wilson spoke, his voice barely audible as his voice was so soft House had to strain to hear it.
“I know it’s stupid,” Wilson mumbled, and his voice was wet and trembled in spite of himself. “I…keep on seeing…her, and---and you, and… and that damned bus…” Fearing he would break down Wilson ran his hand over both eyes, quickly shielding his expression from House’s line of sight---an act for which House was grateful. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Wilson, knowing that the pain he would see there was a kind of pain he knew all too well---guilt, and helplessness, an anger that never a never-ending grief.
The space between them seemed to close in and expand at the same time as words rose and died on House’s lips; words that said: I know; It’s my fault; I’m sorry; Don’t be an idiot. Instead he found himself asking, shocking himself in the process: “Wilson---what can I do?”
A sob shook Wilson as he sat down on the edge of the bed, half on and half off, sitting hunched over like an old man. Without looking at House, Wilson said to the dark, “tell me you won’t leave?”
House could tell that Wilson was struggling even as he placed a soft hand on Wilson’s, and Wilson whirled towards him with shock, staring down at the hand and then up at House, unblinking, amazed. “You...touched me?” Wilson murmured, frozen in place as House nodded, never leaving his eyes off of Wilson.
For a moment neither spoke, then House broke their gaze and said to the bed, so softly that Wilson could hardly hear him, “I keep on seeing you on the bus instead of Amber.”
Wilson shuddered and, before he could think twice, threw his arms around House and held him silently for several seconds, stunned into speechlessness when House didn’t protest. They sat like that for some time until Wilson released and said, “It would really help me if you slept there,” and pointed at Amber’s side of the bed.
“What?” House seemed dazed as he stared at the empty space, fumbling desperately to clear his head. “you mean…”
“Yes,” Wilson whispered. “You asked what you can do…this,” Wilson said, leaning close to House’s ear, as he managed to choke out the last words, “this is what you can do.”
House sat with that for some time, watching the shadows play on the wall all around them, listening to the wind rustling in the trees. The room seemed peaceful, if not for Wilson being so close, seeming to calm his leg’s nerves just by being around him. “House…” Wilson whispered, urging, wanting.
In response, House, still wondering whether or not he was dreaming, lifted the covers and climbed into the bed. One by one Wilson’s grateful tears fell and landed on House’s own face, drying quickly as House placed his face on the pillow. Moments later, Wilson crawled into the bed with him, snuggling his head up against his House’s chest.
House knew this would not be the last night Wilson would be spending the night in his bed. Yet, strangely, he didn’t mind, as suddenly he did not feel so cold, and the pain in his leg began to dwindle to a pulsating throb that seemed to join in tandem to his beating heart.
The chill in the air slowly subsiding, the last thing House remembered before sleep closed in was the surprisingly soft touch of Wilson’s hair gracing his stubble, and the warmth of Wilson’s breath lulling him off into an almost peaceful slumber.