Fic: Sleeping in the Devil's Bed
Title: Sleeping in the Devil's Bed
Authors: third_owl and nightdog_barks . Set in the universe of Nightdog's A River Out of Eden. Read that first, if you haven't.
Characters: House, Wilson; about 1,350 words.
Spoilers: Yes, all the way through 8.22 and then a hard left at Albuquerque.
Warnings: None.
Summary: This is all pretty normal, for their definition of normal. And if it isn't, they'll just pretend it is.
As many nights as not, he sleeps in the same bed with Wilson. Not in Wilson's bed -- that would be the one in Princeton, empty and cold, unless Bonnie's managed to move the condo already -- but in whichever of the two hotel room beds Wilson also occupies.
It's one of those things they've been doing without mentioning it, the way they used to sit on House's (or Wilson's, but usually House's) sofa, closer together than they were supposed to, bumping shoulders, thighs, elbows; reaching across one another for the popcorn or angling for the last fried shrimp on the pupu platter or fighting for the remote. It's all the same, out here on the road, except that about half their hotel rooms don't have sofas, and of those that do, only half of those are comfy. But there are always beds, so House sits on the bed beside Wilson and does the same things as always and then, by accident, dozes off.
That had been going on for a while, with Wilson sometimes bitching that House snored or thrashed, that he stole the sheets, that he farted and oh God. But that would be morning, and at night Wilson would, by accident, doze off without making House leave.
Neither of them wanted to be alone and neither wanted to talk about it, and that was all right with House. And then Wilson got sick with that fever, and House went to sleep in a separate bed and woke up in bed with Wilson and could not, could not, remember how he got there. It was a minor glitch at the time, an anomaly he couldn't deal with because of the need to keep Wilson's brain from boiling away, but like most anomalies, it bugged him.
And now Wilson is going to live, and they have still been by accident falling asleep together, and that anomaly is still bugging House. It's not like it's something you just come out and talk about, though. Every time House thinks about it, he feels his stomach clench at the minefield he'd be voluntarily entering.
"Hey, Wilson! We sleeping together again tonight?"
"Hey, Wilson! I sure am happy we're sleeping together!"
"Hey, Wilson! You know what they call guys who sleep together?"
"Hey, Wilson! You wanna suck -- "
House breathes in sharply and swallows his own spit the wrong way, and suddenly he's bent over coughing and crying, reaching blindly for the tall plastic glass of iced tea. When at last his throat clears and he can see, he looks up to find Wilson staring at him.
"Thought for a minute there I was going to have to come to your rescue," Wilson says.
House coughs a couple more times, experimentally, but everything's open now and he picks up his fork again.
"Heimlich me, doctor," he says, and looks away, quickly, because if he keeps looking at Wilson, Wilson will know he just had an intense desire for Wilson to do just that. To wrap his arms around House's ribs and just ... hold on.
And that, House thinks, is crazy.
He's still thinking crazy thoughts as Letterman signs off that night and Wilson gets up, brushes his teeth, and then gets right back into bed beside him. In those thin cotton knit pajamas of his, ridiculous blue-striped things that erase every coolness point he's earned with a day of v-twin engines and leather. He doesn't even have the scuzzy biker beard to offset the dorkiness, because the Great Wilsonian Facial Hair Experiment lasted (to House's relief) precisely one week on the road. It was itchy, Wilson said. Then it was gone.
So Wilson just looks like Wilson, but that isn't helping. His short sleeves expose the shape of his arms, toned from the riding, and from the morning swims at every place that has a pool, and House needs to stop thinking about that.
"There's a second bed, you know," House says.
"Frightening how I got through med school without learning how to count." Wilson takes two of the four pillows and wedges them against the headboard to build a bed-recliner. "You want the other one, go take it. I like this one."
"It does offer a better angle on the boob tube."
"Correct. SyFy Original Movie tonight?"
"Only if we can't find any Bond."
"Or Hitchcock. Scoot over, you jerk. You're hogging my space."
Liar, House thinks. He is doing no such thing. Liar, liar, liar. "Make me."
"God damn it, House." Wilson's pushing at him, his hip and shoulder pressing into House's. "You could grow up a little."
"And monkeys could fly out my butt. Which do you think's gonna happen first?"
Wilson makes a sound that's somewhere between a groan and a sigh, and gives up, but -- this is the significant thing -- fails to move away. And House's mental soundtrack begins again.
Hey, Wilson? Mind if I hold onto you now?
Yo, Wilson. When you asked if I loved you --
"House?"
"Yeah."
"I've just been subjected to thirty seconds of Urkel. You are now in the penalty box. Gimme the remote."
House holds the thing as far as possible from Wilson's reach. "You do realize, now that you're not dying and I'm still a pathetic cripple, I don't have to do what you say anymore."
"Have to? No. Think of it as enlightened self-interest." And there's something in Wilson's expression that makes House think of it in exactly that way, surrendering the prize without further protest; and really, this degree of manipulative excellence deserves careful study.
"How do you do that, Obi-Wan?" says House, and Wilson smiles, and oh. That's how. Not the stick, but the carrot. Give in to me and I'll look at you like this, I'll laugh with you, I'll play; maybe I'll let you choose the next place we go, the next race we watch, the horse to bet on.
He'd hate Wilson for it if he weren't so busy loving him, and if he didn't know Wilson. The world's biggest giver is needy, and what he needs, wants, is House. Tell me that you love me.
Of course, Wilson was dying then. House rearranges his leg so his calf rests against Wilson's, and decides that even if Wilson still wants to hear it, right now is definitely the wrong time.
"Anything for you," House says, even though, strictly speaking, Obi-Wilson hasn't answered his padawan's question. "Anything."
In House's head there are all the things he may never get to say, all the Soundtracks of Crazy running at once, and he figures he'll have to be okay with that. At least Wilson is here and not in the ground, or in a white cardboard box in the saddlebag of House's bike. Or, hell, even in the other bed.
And that's when Wilson takes his hand.
Well, he doesn't really take it; it's more like he covers House's right hand with his left hand, and leaves it there, and it's all warm and everything. And somehow very, very comforting. The bastard.
House glances over, just out of the corner of his eye, careful not to turn his head. Wilson's not looking at him -- his whole attention seems to be focused on the TV, which is now showing what appears to be an extended infomercial called The Precious World of South Sea Pearls for Under $30.
He shifts in bed, readjusting his shoulders against the pillows, and casually threads first one, then two fingers through Wilson's. When Wilson doesn't immediately pull away, House allows himself to relax, a tiny bit, and then Wilson relaxes his own hand, arranging it so they're clasped. Not gripping or sweaty or any of that awkward shit, just ... clasped. Together.
Infomercial Girl is cooing something about oysters, patented nacre, luxury you too can lustrous traditional elegance yours for just guaranteed and it could be the Charge of the Light Brigade and House wouldn't spare it any more thought.
He's thinking of small steps, their order and direction, and how large they can loom in retrospect, and how that's something they can look forward to now, even though that's kind of paradoxical, looking forward to a retrospective, and --
"House," Wilson says, as he flips channels. "Your brain needs a 'mute' button. Find one."
So House tries. Wilson can have the last word.
Just this once.
Authors: third_owl and nightdog_barks . Set in the universe of Nightdog's A River Out of Eden. Read that first, if you haven't.
Characters: House, Wilson; about 1,350 words.
Spoilers: Yes, all the way through 8.22 and then a hard left at Albuquerque.
Warnings: None.
Summary: This is all pretty normal, for their definition of normal. And if it isn't, they'll just pretend it is.
As many nights as not, he sleeps in the same bed with Wilson. Not in Wilson's bed -- that would be the one in Princeton, empty and cold, unless Bonnie's managed to move the condo already -- but in whichever of the two hotel room beds Wilson also occupies.
It's one of those things they've been doing without mentioning it, the way they used to sit on House's (or Wilson's, but usually House's) sofa, closer together than they were supposed to, bumping shoulders, thighs, elbows; reaching across one another for the popcorn or angling for the last fried shrimp on the pupu platter or fighting for the remote. It's all the same, out here on the road, except that about half their hotel rooms don't have sofas, and of those that do, only half of those are comfy. But there are always beds, so House sits on the bed beside Wilson and does the same things as always and then, by accident, dozes off.
That had been going on for a while, with Wilson sometimes bitching that House snored or thrashed, that he stole the sheets, that he farted and oh God. But that would be morning, and at night Wilson would, by accident, doze off without making House leave.
Neither of them wanted to be alone and neither wanted to talk about it, and that was all right with House. And then Wilson got sick with that fever, and House went to sleep in a separate bed and woke up in bed with Wilson and could not, could not, remember how he got there. It was a minor glitch at the time, an anomaly he couldn't deal with because of the need to keep Wilson's brain from boiling away, but like most anomalies, it bugged him.
And now Wilson is going to live, and they have still been by accident falling asleep together, and that anomaly is still bugging House. It's not like it's something you just come out and talk about, though. Every time House thinks about it, he feels his stomach clench at the minefield he'd be voluntarily entering.
"Hey, Wilson! We sleeping together again tonight?"
"Hey, Wilson! I sure am happy we're sleeping together!"
"Hey, Wilson! You know what they call guys who sleep together?"
"Hey, Wilson! You wanna suck -- "
House breathes in sharply and swallows his own spit the wrong way, and suddenly he's bent over coughing and crying, reaching blindly for the tall plastic glass of iced tea. When at last his throat clears and he can see, he looks up to find Wilson staring at him.
"Thought for a minute there I was going to have to come to your rescue," Wilson says.
House coughs a couple more times, experimentally, but everything's open now and he picks up his fork again.
"Heimlich me, doctor," he says, and looks away, quickly, because if he keeps looking at Wilson, Wilson will know he just had an intense desire for Wilson to do just that. To wrap his arms around House's ribs and just ... hold on.
And that, House thinks, is crazy.
He's still thinking crazy thoughts as Letterman signs off that night and Wilson gets up, brushes his teeth, and then gets right back into bed beside him. In those thin cotton knit pajamas of his, ridiculous blue-striped things that erase every coolness point he's earned with a day of v-twin engines and leather. He doesn't even have the scuzzy biker beard to offset the dorkiness, because the Great Wilsonian Facial Hair Experiment lasted (to House's relief) precisely one week on the road. It was itchy, Wilson said. Then it was gone.
So Wilson just looks like Wilson, but that isn't helping. His short sleeves expose the shape of his arms, toned from the riding, and from the morning swims at every place that has a pool, and House needs to stop thinking about that.
"There's a second bed, you know," House says.
"Frightening how I got through med school without learning how to count." Wilson takes two of the four pillows and wedges them against the headboard to build a bed-recliner. "You want the other one, go take it. I like this one."
"It does offer a better angle on the boob tube."
"Correct. SyFy Original Movie tonight?"
"Only if we can't find any Bond."
"Or Hitchcock. Scoot over, you jerk. You're hogging my space."
Liar, House thinks. He is doing no such thing. Liar, liar, liar. "Make me."
"God damn it, House." Wilson's pushing at him, his hip and shoulder pressing into House's. "You could grow up a little."
"And monkeys could fly out my butt. Which do you think's gonna happen first?"
Wilson makes a sound that's somewhere between a groan and a sigh, and gives up, but -- this is the significant thing -- fails to move away. And House's mental soundtrack begins again.
Hey, Wilson? Mind if I hold onto you now?
Yo, Wilson. When you asked if I loved you --
"House?"
"Yeah."
"I've just been subjected to thirty seconds of Urkel. You are now in the penalty box. Gimme the remote."
House holds the thing as far as possible from Wilson's reach. "You do realize, now that you're not dying and I'm still a pathetic cripple, I don't have to do what you say anymore."
"Have to? No. Think of it as enlightened self-interest." And there's something in Wilson's expression that makes House think of it in exactly that way, surrendering the prize without further protest; and really, this degree of manipulative excellence deserves careful study.
"How do you do that, Obi-Wan?" says House, and Wilson smiles, and oh. That's how. Not the stick, but the carrot. Give in to me and I'll look at you like this, I'll laugh with you, I'll play; maybe I'll let you choose the next place we go, the next race we watch, the horse to bet on.
He'd hate Wilson for it if he weren't so busy loving him, and if he didn't know Wilson. The world's biggest giver is needy, and what he needs, wants, is House. Tell me that you love me.
Of course, Wilson was dying then. House rearranges his leg so his calf rests against Wilson's, and decides that even if Wilson still wants to hear it, right now is definitely the wrong time.
"Anything for you," House says, even though, strictly speaking, Obi-Wilson hasn't answered his padawan's question. "Anything."
In House's head there are all the things he may never get to say, all the Soundtracks of Crazy running at once, and he figures he'll have to be okay with that. At least Wilson is here and not in the ground, or in a white cardboard box in the saddlebag of House's bike. Or, hell, even in the other bed.
And that's when Wilson takes his hand.
Well, he doesn't really take it; it's more like he covers House's right hand with his left hand, and leaves it there, and it's all warm and everything. And somehow very, very comforting. The bastard.
House glances over, just out of the corner of his eye, careful not to turn his head. Wilson's not looking at him -- his whole attention seems to be focused on the TV, which is now showing what appears to be an extended infomercial called The Precious World of South Sea Pearls for Under $30.
He shifts in bed, readjusting his shoulders against the pillows, and casually threads first one, then two fingers through Wilson's. When Wilson doesn't immediately pull away, House allows himself to relax, a tiny bit, and then Wilson relaxes his own hand, arranging it so they're clasped. Not gripping or sweaty or any of that awkward shit, just ... clasped. Together.
Infomercial Girl is cooing something about oysters, patented nacre, luxury you too can lustrous traditional elegance yours for just guaranteed and it could be the Charge of the Light Brigade and House wouldn't spare it any more thought.
He's thinking of small steps, their order and direction, and how large they can loom in retrospect, and how that's something they can look forward to now, even though that's kind of paradoxical, looking forward to a retrospective, and --
"House," Wilson says, as he flips channels. "Your brain needs a 'mute' button. Find one."
So House tries. Wilson can have the last word.
Just this once.