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Rachel can’t sleep.
House finds that Rachel can never sleep, at least when he’s the one stuck babysitting. Presumably she sleeps with her mother, or Wilson, because he read somewhere that children do in fact go quiet every now and then. Cuddy doesn’t believe him when he complains - she’s a toddler, she sleeps - but Rachel is sitting at the dinner table and knocking around all of the contents of House’s pockets - a lighter, his keys, a pocket knife. It’s her favorite toy - pocket - which House finds ridiculously charming. So he lets her fumble with the lighter and scratch up the chairs with the keys while he sits across her, because really, he’s a doctor. But he’s also very tired, and very sore, and very annoyed with how much he would like to make someone miserable right now. So, he does.
“I’m with Rachel. You should come over.”
“House, it’s like midnight.” He’s almost whining, his voice amused and scratchy with sleep. House could hang up right now and he’d still show up.
“And you’re like, awake, which means you’re as restless as this demon-” Rachel giggles at that, clear and shrill. House makes a face and she makes one back. “This demon who will not go to sleep. Come over, please.”
And he hangs up. Wilson is coming, obviously. Wilson, when tossed a ball, cannot physically walk away.
House leans back in the chair and eyes Rachel. She always looks a little street urchin-y, especially since her hair has been getting progressively wilder as time without Cuddy passes. Wilson is the hair brushing babysitter. Cuddy is at some miserable conference that House would have gone to if he wasn’t banned for making a neurologist cry (she was stupid), and so he’s stuck with the child. Wilson is here because a patient needed him the day he was meant to leave.
“What’s this?” She's fiddling with the nail file bit of the swiss army knife.
“Condom.” House is trying very hard to un-educate Rachel in a way that’ll make Cuddy go all twitchy.
“Hmm.” Rachel is making her way down the tools, and House snatches it before she gets to the knives. Rachel pouts and House pouts back.
“Can we watch TV?” Rachel tends to move on very quickly. Simple mind. House grins evilly.
“Absolutely we can watch TV…” He raises his eyebrows.
“Pirates?” Her eyes are wide and hopeful. House wishes there was someone else here to enjoy his creation. Soon, though.
“What else?” And he hobbles over to the couch. Rachel trails behind him, sock feet treading quiet thumps behind him. He puts on the show - her favorite show, thanks to him - and she fits herself into the softest corner of the couch. He throws a blanket at her from under the coffee table and smiles at her muffled giggles. When she pops out her hair is even wilder, and House grins while the TV flashes bright colors.
The show is being not-so clever about the shape of a women's breasts when Wilson walks in, all cotton and sherpa and tired eyes. House can’t help it - he can read Wilson like a book, always. He hasn’t slept well in a few days, and the collar of his half-zip is turned up at the back so he must have rushed, just like House thought he would. He was trying to sleep, based on the sheen of his face from where he’d rubbed it clean earlier, maybe an hour ago, and the loose way his shoulders hang off his neck, like his body hasn’t quite caught up with the fact that he’s awake now. His lips are dry and he keeps licking them like that’s going to do anything to help, and he’s very excited to be here, for some reason. Hm. Wilson is closing the door behind him.
“It’s freezing out there, god…” Wilson is pink around the ears from the walk from his car. House finds it charming, despite himself. Now that he's sober and cut if off with Cuddy, life has slowed down. He likes things he didn't realize he could like.
“It’s January, so…”
“You are impossible to have a conversation with, you know that?”
“I am impossible to have a boring conversation with.” House's tone is mocking, light. Wilson just rolls his eyes and calls out for Rachel.
“I’m watching TV!” The glee is absolutely palpable. House winces.
“You didn’t.” Wilson is glaring at him, and House makes his best whoopsie! face. The TV shouts something crude in response, and Rachel laughs.
“I sorta did… should have drove faster, Jimmy.” Wilson stomps off to the living room to turn it off. Rachel shouts out something terrible and pirate-y, and House barks out a laugh.
“Did you just call me a scourge - Rachel, you gotta go to sleep.” She groans.
“This is why I asked Mommy for House.” Wilson gasps and House laughs even bigger.
“But I make the chicken nuggets the way you like them, and-’” Wilson is cut off by a tiny hand and a somber head shake.
“House lets me play with condoms.” Wilson goes silent for a moment, scandalized.
“House!”
“I’ll explain later- first, great use of pirate lingo. You’ve the makings of a real privateer, Elizabeth Swann.” Rachel beams at that, all teeth and scrunched up eyes.
“Second, maybe you should get to sleep. Charge up for tomorrow.” Rachel thinks about that for a moment, and then nods slowly.
“I guess.” She’s a dramatic one, Rachel.
Wilson shakes off his peeved expression and shoots House a final look before hoisting Rachel up on his hip to bring her to her room. House sinks into the couch, that squishy bit that Rachel likes because it really is the most comfortable, and turns on some background noise. Wilson clambers back into the living room and tosses himself onto the couch.
“I asked Rachel - a nail file, House? At least when you told her that mailboxes were called strippers it kinda made for a good joke.”
House shrugs. “The look on your face was pretty good, James. You’re only mad you got played this time and not Cuddy.”
Wilson shoots House a look and takes a deep breath.
“She’s excited about whatever is happening tomorrow. What were you planning?”
“Ice skating.”
“Wait, what?”
“Why do you think I invited you? I need someone capable on that ice or Cuddy is losing her best babysitter and her kid.” A lie - House had been bracing himself for the strain on his leg on the ice. He’d never skated before the infarction, so it was certain to be miserable. Wilson coming had been a last minute decision based entirely on how much fun it was to see his eyes go wide when House did something terrible.
“I thought -” And something like hurt flashes in Wilson’s eyes, and House doesn’t think too much about it. “Well. That sounds fun, at least.”
“For you, maybe.” House groans as he stands up. “I’ll bear it somehow.” Wilson chuckles.
“I’ll take the couch, then.” House makes a thankful sort of noise over his shoulder as he leaves.
House, it turns out, is a fine skater. He takes a moment to adjust, but he can push himself between the walls with relative success, leaning on one side and letting his weight propel him. Wilson is rather incapable in comparison - able bodied and falling flat on his back a number of times before figuring out how to shuffle a bit, bumbling behind Rachel. Rachel is brilliant, of course, slicing across the ice and cutting in front of Wilson while shouting crudely. A pair of parents glares at him when Rachel says something about him being a “Bilge-sucker” and he grins back.
Wilson is in the middle of the ice, and Rachel is reaching for his hand, and House is feeling left out. So he pushes himself to Wilson’s free side and grabs his forearm.
“God, you are slow.”
Wilson scoffs. “Yes, and you’re large. Get off me and I’ll move a bit faster.”
House tuts. “So Rachel can hold your hand, but not me?” Rachel glares at him.
“Yes, exactly that.” Wilson spins Rachel into a little circle and she scream-laughs.
House stays firmly on his arm, and Wilson is in some thick corduroy jacket that makes it all feel very domestic. So he pushes off back towards the wall. He doesn’t like when he remembers that him and Wilson are two bachelors taking care of Cuddy’s kid when she’s not home. It gives him a funny feeling, the two of them being whatever this is.
He’s sliding towards the wall very slowly, cursing the steady thrum of his leg from the cold and the pressure and the way the man at the counter offered him the old person's ice-cane-thing. Which is when he hears it.
"House!"
It’s Rachel, her voice shrill and terrified, and he whips around faster than his legs seem to be able to catch up. She’s wobbling on the ice, tilting forward and backward and then balancing on one leg for a moment, and House lifts his leg as though to move, and he thinks to himself that he’s actually moving quite fast, that’s strange, and then he realizes he’s moving rather fast towards the ground. A few moments later comes the realization that the ground was not the correct destination, and right as he realizes that he's about to headbutt the ice it all goes black.
“Is House going to be ok?”
“Yes, Rachel, he’s always ok.”
“Mommy will be mad if I hurt him.” Rachel’s been sitting quietly in the waiting room beside Wilson. After crying and screaming when House hit the ice and bled rather a lot, she went very silent and very moody.
“Your mother won’t blame you. She’ll probably blame House, really.”
“But I scared him. So he fell.” Rachel’s bangs are growing long, and she looks so small and sullen right now that Wilson wishes he could go back in time. He finds himself wishing that a lot, these days.
“He fell because he tried to skate on his leg, which he shouldn’t have done.” It feels a little wrong to be blaming his unconscious best friend for his concussion, but Rachel needs it. She stays quiet and goes back to fiddling with the cuffs of her jacket. Wilson remembers how much she likes playing with his pocket junk, so he tosses her some coins, his keys, and a receipt. She gives him a small smile in return, and Wilson thinks it’s a currency he would exchange anything for.
Wilson finds himself thinking, in that stuffy little waiting room. Remembering.
It was after another conference, one that left them both hungry for real life, healthy people and stupid people. They had piled into Wilsons stuffy car and drove to a stuffier bar that was nearly empty. House paid for drinks, and Wilson had come undone, winking at every girl he saw and then blushing a brilliant red at himself while undoing his collar. House got closer to him - they had stopped turning for pretty girls and instead sat curled to each other, a closed set of parentheses. House was making dirty jokes and Wilson kept blushing at them like some waif and House was eyeing his skin just because it was skin and he was drunk, Wilson had been sure. Even drunk, he was rationalizing.
Wilson was aware that he had been thinking wrong, thinking in a way that was dangerous, but that was what he did. So who cares if House would have gone quiet if he heard Wilson thoughts -I wonder if his wrist is warm. I wonder what his pulse is- because they were drunk and nothing mattered. Until it did.
They were getting in the car and Wilson maybe shouldn’t have been driving but it was a short ride back and neither of their girlfriends were home so who cared, really, and House had been loose and open for Wilson in the passenger's seat - his laugh came easy, his hands reached out to touch Wilson’s arm. They were parked in front of the bar and the light coming from it was yellow and the music was soft. And - well. The whole thing had felt very romantic, Wilson had thought. Because House had said, in the slurred, soft voice that Wilson loved-
“Your hair ‘s a mess." And his hand had come to rest on the side of Wilson’s head, and Wilson turned to lick it even though he thought he would be happy having that hand in his hair forever, and when he turned back House was close, very close. And House moved first. Wilson still reminds himself of that now. House moved first. House kissed him first, soft and sour with whatever liquor made him do it. And Wilson kissed him back.
And then they weren’t kissing, suddenly. Wilson pulled away and they both cleared their throats in a very manly way as though to negate the whole gay-kiss-with-your-bestfriend thing.
Two weeks later, House became a whole new person. The infarction turned off whatever switch that night had flipped rather cleanly.
Realistically, they were friends, who were drunk, so who cares. But Wilson is stuck on it, on the fact that he may have liked it. On the fact that he didn’t speak to House until the day after the infarction, but his plan had always been to talk about it. He wanted to- well, he wanted to explore it. He ended the relationship with Abby or Cindy or Susan or whatever the next day. But House always had something, or he always had something, and years passed and every time Wilson saw him he thought maybe - maybe it would be like that again. The closeness, the kissing. Any of it. One more time. He would be willing to do anything. Since House got clean, broke up with Cuddy - it started feeling like maybe they could be ok. Like maybe he could talk about. But House was hurt, again, and maybe it wasn’t the same, but that pounding in his heart and the heat at the back of his throat took him straight back.
House gets wheeled out looking miserable, and Wilson smiles so he doesn’t cry.
Rachel is shy looking, and House clearly hates it.
“Thank you for trying to help me.” She almost whispers it. House hoists her onto his lap and Wilson pretends not to notice him wince.
“If anyone asks, I did save you, capiche?” She nods seriously.
He has a concussion, and he needed a handful of stitches. His leg hurts enough that he didn’t object to the wheelchair, but that’s expected. They shove themselves into Wilson’s car, and House squirms around to get comfortable despite being sore everywhere. They find themselves in Cuddy’s apartment, and Rachel cuddles up in Wilson’s lap while the three of them watch a nature documentary. It’s all very peaceful, and Wilson makes tea and House drinks enough to make him warm and tipsy but nothing else, not since he stopped using. Rachel goes to bed early, tired from what ice skating she did do, and House whispers something to her that Wilson doesn’t hear that makes her smile crookedly.
House is sitting with his legs up on the coffee table, looking limp and sulky, and Wilson remembers how he used to run him baths, right after the infarction. Stacy had barely been home, and so Wilson would fill the tub with soaps and bubbles and light candles for him. So he offers. And to his surprise, House says yes.
Wilson pours in epsom salts, lights a candle. House will grumble about it, surely - it’s all too romantic for his tastes - but Wilson likes to make the whole thing less medical, if he can. Cuddy has all kinds of fun things to dump in the bath. He puts in a purple bath bomb that will surely annoy House to no end and a rubber duck with an eye patch and a pirate hat.
“Bath is ready!” Wilson calls. He walks over to the bedroom in time to see House try to stand and then fall back against the couch.
“Hey. Hey, let me help you.” Wilson’s arm comes around House’s waist, and he holds on tight, like House might wriggle out of his grasp. House is warm and presses against Wilson for a moment, and Wilson nearly melts from how miserable the whole thing is. House catches himself in the act of accepting help and corrects himself immediately.
“I don’t need your help, dipshit.” Wilson keeps his hand there, right on the small of his back. “You’re not the boss of-”
“Can we skip this part today?” Wilson can’t bear to fight House to help him. He wishes he could do more, could fix House and all his anger, but this is what he settles for. It always ends the same - House lets him help because he doesn’t really have a choice.
“Fine.” Wilson feels a flash of worry at his willingness. He lets himself be helped up and yelps in a way that makes Wilson chuckle while his leg readjusts. If he doesn’t laugh he might just cry- when Wilson is too serious about his leg, about how horrible it all is, House’s mood goes dark and sour and his words become sharp and cruel. So they laugh. They make their way down the hall, Wilson pressing up against House and holding him in a way that makes House grumble. House sits on the side of the tub while Wilson pours some more epsom salts into it. He lingers for a moment.
“Thanks. Your bedside manner is improving exponentially.” Wilson watches House for a moment, angular and blocky against the warm lit room.
“Call me if you need anything, House.” He shuts the door behind him.
Wilson lets himself mope on the couch for a bit. House had never skated before the infarction - and maybe Wilson is just romantic - but something about the way House slid across the ice makes Wilson think he would have been fantastic. He winces, thinking of it. They used to go to the scrappiest trails in Jersey, drive for hours to get to those remote, rocky paths. House used to crack jokes the whole time. Wilson would be out of breath, grabbing at wispy tree branches to brace himself, and House would be grumbling about what a horrible hiking partner he was. Once, House fell into a stream and pulled Wilson in beside him to roll around in the mud like dogs. Now he whines every time it rains. They used to hike. And now House is falling on the ice and getting concussed. This is different from the overdoses, the seizures. This is a display of vulnerability Wilson had never expected. Wilson is realizing that maybe this is what House was hiding. House is a little bit pitiful, underneath it all.
House comes out damp and wrapped up in that same pajama set he always wears, looking a bit like a mouse dipped in a bucket. Wilson shifts to the corner of the couch so that the part House likes best is open. Wilson never liked the right side - too soft, he feels like he’s falling through quicksand - but Rachel and House fight over it like dogs.
“Good bath. Pirate was a good touch.” House throws himself into the couch with a huff.
“I imagine it belongs to Rachel. Can’t fathom what kind of horrible things she’s made him say.” Wilson fiddles with his hands, keeping his eyes off House. The light is dim, and they’re close. Wilson wants to look at him but isn’t sure he could keep himself from saying something he would regret.
“Surely nothing we haven’t heard before. I think she’s started making up her own insults. The pirates didn’t have a very expansive vocabulary, I’ve heard.” House is rambling, and Wilson loves it, loves this. That House can sit here and talk about something stupid like pirates and babysit Rachel and be sober and be happy, maybe. And then Wilson is hugging House, without really realizing he was going to do it.
“Tackling a concussed man is not very doctor-y of you, James.” It’s a bit of an awkward position, him having to lean across the couch and pull House to him a bit. But it still feels right, like that night before the infarction. Like magnets.
“Shut up.” Wilson has his chin tucked into House’s shoulder, and he can hear House breathing softly. He pulls away and clears his throat.
“Sorry.” Wilson looks down at his hands again.
“No - no, it’s ok.” House sounds genuine, and those two things being true- genuine and it’s ok - is a bit like a heart attack.
“House -” Wilson hesitates. “House, I think -”
“We should sleep together.” House says it through a yawn. Wilson blinks rapidly.
“What?”
“You’ll need to wake me up every two hours, no? And make sure my brain hasn’t turned to mush, I assume.” House is pushing himself off the couch already. Wilson can’t tell if House is trying to mess with him or if the head injury has made him dense.
“Oh. Oh, yeah. Ok.” Wilson grabs House by the side again and House is tired and tipsy enough not to complain. Cuddy’s guest bed is unfortunately small, and they slide in together once House has been deposited to his side of the bed. House is in a mood. His face is grim and dark, and when Wilson says goodnight House just turns over. Wilson feels like he's done something very wrong, somehow.
Wilson flicks the lamp off, and they sleep.
House is definitely not sleeping. Wilson is sleeping, House thinks. His breathing slowed and he stopped all that damn shifting around -unfortunately with his arm draped over House’s stomach, but whatever. House is freaking out a tiny bit, because Wilson hugged him and they were drinking Cuddy’s stupid rose, and he could swear it’s the same cheap shit that they had at that bar, and Wilson still smells like mint and sunlight and warm laundry and House wishes he could turn that smell into a detergent or a bath salt or something because he might lean over and sniff Wilson right now otherwise.
Also, his head hurts.
But whatever. That was 10 years ago, or something, and Wilson doesn’t even remember it. Not if he was as drunk as he seemed. So who cares if when Wilson looks at him with his eyes all heavy and his collar turned up House’s vision goes white for a moment. Who cares.
Wilson wakes up and House is saying his name - Wilson, Wilson, Wilson. He’s pleading, almost. But also maybe a little angry, and for a delirious moment Wilson thinks he slept through all his alarms and forgot to wake House up, but no. House is having a dream. Maybe a nightmare. Wilson goes to wake him up but hesitates when House speaks. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean- he’s nearly whispering, desperate sounding. Wilson shakes him awake and he wakes up with a start.
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah, um?” Wilson has both hands on House’s shoulders still, even though House is sitting up straight now. He takes one hand off and brings it down to rest at House’s thigh.
House is breathing fast and shallow. “Fuck.”
“Yeah. Are you-?” Wilson doesn’t know how to ask the question. The answer is never yes, not really.
House swallows and nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m ok. I’m still -” He bites his lips. “Can I-?” Wilson nods. Wilson doesn’t understand what he’s asking, not really. But Wilson can’t think of a single thing he wouldn’t do for House right now.
“I’m the monster in all my dreams. The fucking - the fucking bad thing. And I hurt everyone. And I wake up, and you know how when you were a kid you would have a dream where like, your parents died or something? And you’d realize it was a dream and you’d be able to say that’s not real .” Wilson nods and his heart does a weird sort of flip in his chest because he knows what comes next.
“I don’t get that. I don’t fucking get that. I dream that I’m horrible, and everyone hates me because all I do is hurt and defend and ruin, and I wake up and it’s still true. I’m still this - I don’t even know, Wilson. I’m still me.”
Wilson grabs House as though to hold him together, and House buries his face into Wilson’s neck. Wilson is whispering things into House’s ear - it’s ok, it’s ok - and he pulls away to look him in the eyes after a moment.
“House.”
“At least I don’t have a brain bleed.” House smiles weakly. Wilson puts his hands on the sides of House’s head.
“House. House, you’re not the bad thing. Your shitty dad and that horrible blood clot and all the people who told you that you couldn’t do it - that’s what’s bad. But you’re not a sum of those things, House. You’re Rachel’s favorite person on the planet and you’re my best friend and you’re the reason so many people are alive. And you hurt me but you put me back together, House. You always do.”
House makes a choked sort of sound, and in the darkness of Cuddy’s guest room Wilson couldn’t say who moves first. But they kiss. Wilson will make pancakes for Rachel in the morning, and House will lick batter off Wilson's nose, and maybe they'll both feel a little more together.