Fic: Sleeping wih Wilson
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Title:
Author: me (very shy…)
Pairings: House/Wilson No slash, or only mildly implied
Word Count: 847
Rating: PG, for teh sad
Disclaimer: Yup, not mine. Only playing. Will return when done.
Spoilers: None, really
Warnings: Ends sad, but not really. Everbody (d)ies.
Author’s note: First fic. Love you all, you are great. Time to give back to the community. Be kind.
The first time House slept with Wilson they were drunk.
It had been after Wilson’s bachelor party, before his second marriage. They had stopped for a nightcap in House’s neighborhood after the other doctors had been poured into taxicabs. Wilson had intended to spend the night on House’s lumpy couch. Instead, House was unable to locate his keys when they got to the foyer of his building (they were later found in Wilson’s pocket, Wilson having rescued them off the bar and forgotten all about it). So, after several fruitless minutes searching all the pockets of House’s jacket and jeans, they passed out on said foyer floor. They awoke hours later when Wilson became aware of sleeping on the elusive keys and kicked House awake. They moved inside the apartment and Wilson fell onto the couch and House made it into the bedroom. There were no pancakes in the morning. No one would have been able to keep them down, anyway.
The second time House slept with Wilson was after Stacey left. House had only been home from rehab for a week, and it had not been a pleasant week for either of them. It had begun to be clear that the pain was not going to go away. Not just the physical pain (although that constant edge that could only be tamed to a four at best would be enough to drive anyone mad), but also the pain of realizing all that he had lost. He was still on the crutches three months after the infarction, and even if he could graduate to a cane with lots of additional therapy it was clear that he would never run again. Nor would he golf (carts were for pussies-besides, the point of golf was the pleasant walk on the links). Nor play lacrosse, enjoy a pick up game with Wilson and some other doctors, or fuck with the ferocious savagery that Stacey had come to expect. She hadn’t pushed the issue, but he knew that she would, and besides it was all her fault anyway, so he pushed her and pushed her until the sixth day he had been home, when she called Wilson to pick up the pieces and then called for a cab. Wilson hurried over and found House curled up on the bed sobbing uncontrollably. Photos of House and Stacey had been shattered around the room. It was unclear who had broken them. Wilson wrapped his arms around House and let all the frustration and misery of the past three months pour out of him. They stayed that way until House’s breathing slowed down and then he was finally sleep. Wilson stayed there awhile longer before getting up and sweeping up the splintered remains of House’s former life. In the morning Wilson was gone, and when he returned later that day with a shiny new cane and carton of Kung Pao House nodded his thanks but never brought the subject of Stacey up again.
The third time House slept with Wilson, Wilson had moved in with House during his divorce from Wife number Three. House had had a particularly bad day with both a patient and his leg. The patient he had been able to save and the leg had asked for an extra Vicodin or two. When House finally limped in the door at 10:45 that evening Wilson was watching an old movie; (he was NOT crying). He moved over to the chair so House could lie on the couch and put his leg up. After the movie had ended House announced that he was going to bed. Wilson excused himself to go freshen up before he retired to the couch. When Wilson was finished he went to the closet to retrieve his pillow and blanket and found House quite unconscious on the lumpy couch. Wilson sighed, covered House with the blanket, left the pillow on the floor, and went into House’s bedroom. Some hours later House woke to use the toilet, exited the bathroom, and shuffled sleepily into the bedroom. Wilson had the habit of sleeping on the far side of the bed (at the last wife’s insistence), and House (tired and in the dark) had not noticed the lump way across the big king-sized bed. In the morning they looked confused, but neither one mentioned it. Wilson made macadamia nut pancakes for breakfast. A week later he moved out.
The last time House slept with Wilson was the last time House slept at all. He was 79, and the fast-moving pancreatic cancer had ravaged all of his internal organs. He had been sent home for hospice care and Wilson had been with him every step of the way. As House was slipping in and out of consciousness Wilson crawled into bed with him and held his friend close. It felt good and natural and House responded by putting his arm around Wilson and nuzzling his head into Wilson’s shoulder.
“Why have we never done this before?” House asked, before fading away for the last time.
Wilson never ate pancakes again.
FIN
Sleeping with Wilson