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Outside, the rain fell without mercy. Wilson listened to it from his bed, and was supremely grateful to be where he was. To be with whom he was.
"Wilson?"
He turned over to look at his companion, House. His hair was mussed up, but that only made sense. Neither one had left the bed since they'd woken up, not even to get dressed. Instead, they'd lain for hours together, reading and dozing and talking about nothing. His own hair must be a fright, Wilson mused. How wonderful, not to care.
He bent his arm so that he could prop his head up with his hand. "Yeah?"
"Was I the rebound guy?"
He considered House, who, like him, was naked but still half-concealed by the covers. House was so calm given how much he was exposing himself—in all meanings of the word. Wilson wondered if it was the coziness of their warmth against the coldness of the autumn rain that was feeding him this surge of affection towards House. He wondered if it was just love.
"Yeah, you were."
"That's what I figured." House moved so that he was on his side and mirrored Wilson's position. In doing so he scooted closer to Wilson. "Julie had left you, what—"
"Three weeks and two days before, before--" He never did know how to end that phrase.
House reached out to brush his hand against Wilson's cheek, his jaw; his fingers ran across his lips, and Wilson opened his mouth slightly, letting House wet his thumb against his lower lip. "What made you—I mean."
"Realize."
"Yeah."
"Nothing. Everything." Wilson, running his palm down House's arm, then over his bare chest, said, idly, "I was lonely. You were there."
"Huh." House's hand, which had been resting against Wilson's neck, started to scratch him gently there, occasionally rubbing with the tips of his fingers. "I was hoping for something more romantic—a coup de foudre, violins rising to a crescendo in the background as you watched me shave—"
Wilson smiled. "Freak."
"Hornball."
"Hopeless romantic."
"Insecure pathological committer to relationships."
"Misera—" Wilson didn't finish his sentence because he was then being kissed by House; he kissed back, and whatever he was going to say dissolved into nothingness.
By the time they pulled apart Wilson had forgotten the insult, but not the train of their conversation. "How about you? What convinced you to go for the ride?"
"Curiosity."
"That wasn't just a joke?"
"No, it really was curiosity. But I didn't know—I didn't think it would be this intense. When we started." Sometimes Wilson was struck dumb by the color of House's eyes. This was one of those times. "I don't think anyone has made me as crazy as you."
"Right back at you," Wilson whispered, and his heart was doing this strange clenching thing. This time he initiated the kiss, wanting more than anything to be touching House. "You know," he murmured pulling away long enough to get the words out, "when I couldn't stand being married—"
"What makes you think I want you to think about your wives right now?" House demanded gruffly, and that was an invitation for another round of kissing. Wilson gladly accepted it, reveling in the intimacy of a slow, open-mouthed kiss, wrapping his arms around House and pulling him in close.
But Wilson wanted to finish what he was saying, so he broke away once more. "I used to go—to go see you. Just to hang out. I'd forget whatever it was that had made me go out in the first place, and that was good. Pity my ex-wives were still pissed at me when I got back."
"How about now?" House played with the locks of hair that fell down onto Wilson's forehead. "Who do you go to?"
"No one."
Moments passed, with them just lying there, wrapped around each other. Wilson thought they would fall asleep like this, but House spoke. "Hey."
"Yeah?"
"When I said that you make me crazy—you know that I meant that I love you, right?"
"Yes, I think I picked up on that."
"Okay." House seemed to quiet down, but only for a second. "So when you said 'right back at you,' you meant—"
"Yes, House. I meant."
"Okay."
"Okay."
Yes, Wilson thought, there was no other place he wanted to be.