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2:56 am. Wilson's gaze sharpens on the clock, reading the numbers over and over in the hope that sleep might chance upon him. It doesn't. He sighs and rolls over, squeezing his eyes shut. He can't do this. He can't stand another sleepless night, get up the next morning and then go to work like everything is alright. How can he comfort others when he doesn't believe in what he says?
Ever since Amber's death, he's had difficulty sleeping. It heightens with stress, and right now is a pretty damn stressful time. He needs to take care of House, he reminds himself. But he has his patients to take care of as well, and the little children at the oncology ward that beam at him, tug at his coat with small hands, begging him to read them the latest book.
He can never say no. Too much heart has always been Wilson's problem. It's a blessing and a curse.
Please, he thinks. Just a few hours. That's all I need. He burrows his head in the blankets, forcing every thought out of his mind. He wants to forget everything, to just rest for a day. He wants to spend a day with House, both of them enjoying each other's company.
With the stress of his job, messy life and a problematic best friend, Wilson has found no time to just relax and talk to House, like they used to. Everyone asks Wilson about House, trusting him to take care of the diagnostician and he does, he really cares about House's well being. But it's too damn much. And he desperately needs sleep to get through it.
Tonight is no different. Wilson is still awake the next morning when the alarm goes off. That insistent beeping makes him want to fling it across the room, smash it. He doesn't. Shuffling into the bathroom, he glances at his reflection in the mirror. Exhaustion is the first emotion he can discern. Reaching into a drawer, Wilson fumbles with the items until he finds it.
Citalopram. He stares at the tan coloured, round pill in his hand, debating how much he should take.
Before he can decide, the bathroom door opens and he jumps, dropping the bottle back into the drawer and shutting it with his hip discreetly. House peers in, hair tousled and eyes lidded with sleepiness. Wilson feels a pang of jealousy. At least he had a good night's sleep.
"Last I checked, we had different bathrooms," He huffs, turning back to the mirror. "Good morning to you too, sunshine," House responds with a yawn. "Did you get any sleep? You look like you've been up half the night."
The whole night, actually. "I'm fine. Now, do you mind? I have to get ready and I'm not stripping in front of you, no matter how good a friend you are. Not unless you're paying." House chuckles at that, but he leaves after a, "Remind me to bring my wallet next time." He has to be the one with the last word, doesn't he? Wilson inhales deeply and turns on the faucet.
The sensation of icy water splashing on his face is enough to wake him up, and he can ignore the dull pounding of his skull from the headache that he has undoubtedly got from lack of sleep.
When he enters the kitchen, a steaming cup of coffee is on the table, and House is eating cereal, a newspaper propped up on the table in front of him. "You made me coffee," Wilson realises, touched by the gesture. House waves a hand. "It's because I need you to be awake in case my team can't think of something and I need an epiphany. Don't read into it."
When Wilson smiles softly and says nothing, he lifts his head from the paper to groan. "You read into it."
Wilson knows he's doing it out of concern, but this is House- he would save you from a burning building and would wave away your thanks by making it inadequate. It's not out of rudeness that he does it, he just doesn't require a thank you to feel good.
He feels better for a while, but work is hell. He can barely concentrate on his patients, and every time he spaces out when they're talking, he feels guilty. They're going through something hard, he should be listening to them.
By the time House comes around for their daily lunches, he's utterly drained, bone numbingly tired. House barges in as always, ranting about Cuddy and how she stopped him from being unethical yet again, and how he ignored her yet again, which lead to a new problem with the patient. He would laugh at her exasperation if he wasn't fucking exhausted.
House pauses midway through his rant, observing Wilson's lethargy with scrutiny. "He actually turned into a cat during the lumbar puncture, you should have seen it. Claws, fuzzy black fur, everything. I think Chase peed himself," he says, just as an experiment.
"That's nice," Wilson mumbles absentmindedly. His mind is mush, nothing is processing. He wants to take a nap, but he needs to stay awake.
This is getting ridiculous. House sweeps out of the office, knowing he won't notice. He needs to find a way for Wilson to sleep, he's passed cognitive impairments, irritability and is now veering dangerously to delusions. The next step is-
"Psychosis," House announces, erasing his patient's symptoms and adding Wilson's sleep deprivation ones instead.
Thirteen, Chase, Kutner and Taub exchange looks. "Uh, those are the symptoms of sleep deprivation. Our patient is in a coma, I don't think he's deprived of any sleep," Taub prompts. House rolls his eyes. "It's not this patient," he says slowly, as though this information should be painfully obvious.
Thirteen leans forward. "Then who are we diagnosing now?" She asks, sounding like she's playing along just so that House will get back to the patient. "Wilson. Only I know the diagnosis, I just need treatment." House takes a seat.
Kutner's attention snaps to him. "Wilson? Is he okay?" Chase watches with the same undisguised worry. "No, and I need to find a way to help him sleep."
The team immediately suggest ideas. "Tea works, maybe he can have a cup before bed," Taub recommends. "Lower the temperature in the room," Thirteen proposes, Chase agreeing with her. "Music always helps me sleep," Kutner adds. "Wilson hates tea, his room is an Antarctic nightmare and-" House stops.
Music. "My piano," he says quietly. He knows what to do to get Wilson to sleep. And he will do it.
That night, Wilson lies awake. He covers his face with both hands, taking a deep breath. This is getting unbearable, he would rather die than deal with it. There's a flurry of sharp knocks at his door that Wilson recognises as House's cane.
He doesn't want to answer, but he knows that House will enter despite what he says so he gives up and unlocks the door. He doesn't get a chance to scold House before his best friend grabs him by the hand and pulls him outside. "What are you doing?" House flashes him a grin. "Helping you sleep." Confused, Wilson lets him do whatever it is he's attempting.
House helps him get settled on the couch, piling blankets onto him, which Wilson guesses are taken from his room. He can't help but smile at that- they smell like House.
The soothing notes of a melody surround the darkness, calming Wilson's heartbeat immediately. The song is I'm so tired, by the Beatles. A relaxed, almost meditative air washes over Wilson and he closes his eyes. House's voice accompanies the lullaby. Wilson has never really appreciated how soft it is.
He feels peaceful, the sway of the music guiding him to the promise of better rest. Wilson exhales contentedly, sinking into the blankets and listening.
Halfway through the song, he falls asleep, breathing steady. House plays for a while longer, then gently lifts his fingers off the keys to admire Wilson in the pale moonlight. It gives his features a softer glow, and House knows he's in love with all of them. The cheekbones, chocolate eyes, smile- he adores Wilson.
House kneels next to Wilson, sliding his fingers through the latter's gingerly. "You don't always have to take care of us, Wilson," he murmurs. "Just seeing you happy is enough for me, I don't know where I lost track of that. I love you."
He says the last line in such a hushed voice that he doubts Wilson heard it. His phone abruptly buzzes.
Jumping at the noise, he glares at the inanimate object and flips it open to see messages from the team.
-Patient doing good. Blood tests normal. How's Wilson, did your plan work? Thirteen.
-Is Wilson okay? Do you need anything? Kutner.
-How did it go, House? Taub.
-In the lab with Thirteen, the blood tests so far are good. PS: Tell Wilson you love him! Chase.
House laughs, replying to all of them. He sets his phone on the table and is prepared to head back in when Wilson's sleep heavy voice reaches him. "House..." House is by his side instantly, gripping his hand for comfort. Wilson smiles drowsily, tugging with just enough force that House loses balance.
He falls on the couch next to Wilson. "Stay," Wilson whispers. "I love you too." A wide smile breaks out over House's face. He makes himself comfortable, wrapping his arms around Wilson. But just before he falls asleep, he presses a light kiss to his forehead.
That's all they need.