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House wakes up slowly, peeling his eyes open with what feels like a herculean amount of effort. Sleep still clings to the corners of his mind, threatening to drag him back under, and he’d be more than happy to oblige if not for the fact that he can feel Wilson shifting around behind him, trying his hardest to sneak out of bed unnoticed. He’s not doing a very good job of it, though, and the sudden lack of warmth is very, very upsetting to House’s still-drowsy brain.
“Hrgh,” he grunts intelligently, rolling over to face his partner and blinking up at him through sleep-bleary eyes. House very pointedly wraps his arms around Wilson’s waist and tucks his face into his chest before he can escape, clinging to him like a limpet. “No.”
“We have work in two hours,” Wilson protests quietly, but it falls on deaf ears.
He sighs affectionately and shuffles to cradle House’s head, automatically scratching the hairs at the base of his scalp. House hums his approval in return, going limp and boneless in his partner’s grasp as his eyes slip shut again. This move also has the added bonus of making it infinitely harder for Wilson to get up; House can tell he’s won when he hears that long-suffering but fond sigh again.
He’s not sure why Wilson even bothers trying to get up early, if he’s honest. They have this exact same unspoken argument pretty much every morning, and House always wins - always. Wilson’s way too much of a pushover when it comes to the cuddly stuff. It works out in House’s benefit, though, so he’s not about to start complaining.
“I really should get up, House,” Wilson murmurs softly, but House just doubles down on his keep-Wilson-in-bed crusade, tightening his arms and slinging his bad leg over one of Wilson’s to keep the pressure off of it. Try and get up now, he thinks smugly, because he knows that Wilson won’t risk hurting his thigh even if it means staying there all day. Far too selfless for his own good, honestly.
It’s not long before House finds himself drifting off again, surrounded by the comforting scent and heat of his partner - he still refuses to use the word boyfriend, lest he sound like a high schooler - and he dozes like that for a while, all sleepy and content. He’s in that delightful half-awake, half-asleep state, his mind carried through lethargic numbness on waves of warmth and bliss.
All things must end, though, and his slumber is once again rudely interrupted by Wilson squirming around underneath him.
“C’mon, House, I really will be late if you make me stay any longer,” comes his quiet but exasperated voice.
“Fine.”
House finally gives in, rolling off of him and tucking his face under the covers with a soft huff. He immediately misses the warmth as Wilson gets up, shivering as the blanket is pulled away temporarily.
He’s soon tucked back in, though, and Wilson fondly pats the House-shaped lump under the duvet on his way to the bathroom. House listens to him pottering around as he goes through his far-too-meticulous morning routine, and groans in exasperation when the hairdryer starts up. Definitely not getting back to sleep now.
He still stays tucked away in his cosy little cocoon even as Wilson finishes his primping, only deigning to poke his head out when he hears the familiar rattle of his Vicodin nearby. The blinds have been opened, and a sunbeam hits him dead in the eyes; House squints past the harsh golden rays to see Wilson placing a glass of water and two pills on the bedside table. When he notices House, he turns to him with a smile.
“Ah, you’ve finally decided to join the world of the living,” he teases fondly, leaning down to press a soft kiss to House’s forehead. “Brought you something.”
“You know I don’t need water to take my pills,” House grouches, voice still thick and sleep-heavy, but it lacks bite. He sits up anyway, wincing as the covers drag over his thigh; Wilson just rolls his eyes, taps the rim of the glass pointedly, then swoops in to steal one more kiss. House very unsubtly tries to turn his face so Wilson’s mouth will collide with his own, but the other man isn’t having it, adjusting his target to House’s cheek instead. He soon pulls away, smiling and shaking his head fondly.
“I’m not kissing you properly until you’ve brushed your teeth.”
House very maturely sticks his tongue out at him. That’ll show him.
Wilson sighs again, more than used to his partner’s antics by now, and pads out of the room. Judging by the clinking of pots and pans, he’s making breakfast, and House sincerely hopes it’s his fabled macadamia nut pancakes. He would kill for some of those right now.
But first, he sets about downing his pills. Despite his earlier grumbling, he’s actually quite grateful for the water, since his mouth currently tastes like something curled up and died in it overnight. Maybe Wilson had a point about not kissing him yet, to be fair. Not that he’ll let the other man know that he was right, because it might go to his head - there’s only room for one big ego in this household, thank you very much.
Soon enough, he feels the Vicodin kicking in, taking the insistent stabbing in his thigh down to a slightly more tolerable steady throb. House wrangles his legs off the side of the bed, grabbing his cane from where it’s propped against the nightstand as he goes, and hauls himself to his feet. After hobbling to the bathroom, he makes a start on his own (much shorter and less ridiculous) morning routine: he pees, brushes his teeth and has a quick shower. Taking one last glance in the mirror, House tousles his damp hair just so, in that scruffy-yet-suave way he knows Wilson likes. Mostly to try and tempt him into an impromptu makeout sesh, now that he’s all minty-fresh.
Yesterday’s clothes pass the sniff test, so he throws them on and trudges down the hall, enticed by the smell of coffee and hot food. Sure enough, Wilson has indeed made macadamia nut pancakes, and he glances up as he hears the step-thunk of House’s shuffling gait.
“Hey,” he says, two plates of pancakes in hand. “Breakfast’s ready.”
“Thanks,” House responds earnestly, which is an unfortunate reaction that Wilson has somehow Pavlov'd him into over the years. He takes his plate and sits in his usual spot on the couch, his partner soon settling in beside him. They eat in comfortable silence, House enthusiastically shovelling his pancakes down with his fingers while Wilson eats his with a knife and fork (boring!).
Thanks to his rather fervent eating method, House finishes first. He limps his way over to the kitchen to unceremoniously dump his plate in the sink, before-
“House.”
Uh oh, that’s Wilson’s you’re-about-to-be-in-trouble tone. With a dramatic sigh, he turns back to the sink and takes his plate out, putting it into the dishwasher instead. So much effort. The things he does for love, honestly.
House makes his way back into the living room, settling down again to watch Wilson eat. He’s done it enough times by now for Wilson to be unbothered by it, though he’d found it a bit weird at first. Not House’s fault that he makes such funny (and adorable, though he would never admit that out loud) faces when he has a particularly good meal; how is he supposed to not stare at those pretty eyebrows, his lovely mouth, those warm, dark eyes…
House wipes off the dopey grin that’s somehow made its way onto his face, quickly replacing it with a scowl. Waxing poetic about his partner is something he is not supposed to be doing, lest it ruin his reputation as a cold-hearted bastard. (Well, he might have already done that a little bit considering that the pair of them are hardly subtle while at work, but it’s about the principle of it.)
Wilson finishes his meal while House is self-scrutinising, and puts his plate down on the coffee table with yet another hearty sigh.
“What are you moping about now?”
“You’re too pretty, it’s distracting. Stop it.”
A teasing grin spreads over Wilson’s face at that, and he bats his eyelashes, putting on an exaggerated lovey-dovey expression as he leans closer.
“Aww, you think I’m cute?”
House rolls his eyes in fond amusement and shoves him away lightly, intending to just unbalance him a little. Unfortunately for him, Wilson is far too quick, and grabs his arms to yank him down too. They collapse into the couch cushions smushed sideways against each other, House’s face resting on Wilson’s chest with his wrists still clutched in a death grip.
“Oh no,” Wilson says lightly. “Looks like I’m stuck. Whatever will I do?”
House smiles into Wilson’s shirt, then squirms his way further up so they’re nose to nose. He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.
“I can think of a few things.”
He captures Wilson’s resulting laugh with his mouth and lets his hands explore his partner’s body, skirting along his sides then up to caress his face. He adores lazy morning kisses like these, slow and languid and so loving that it’s almost overwhelming in the best possible way.
Despite their many years of being together - and their many years of friendship before that - House still struggles to say the words I love you. It’s something that will probably never come easy to him, no matter how much he tries - so he pours his emotions into their kiss instead; gratitude for Wilson’s patience, for his caring nature, for making him feel like someone worth a damn.
They finally draw apart for a moment, resting their foreheads together.
“House,” Wilson murmurs with a smile, voice soft and ever-so-fond, and House presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, hoping that Wilson understands what it means.
I love you.
Another kiss, this time to his jaw.
I love you.
A kiss to the hollow of his throat.
I love you.
Wilson takes House’s face in his hands, gazing at him with so much adoration that it hurts, and kisses him back. It’s not a deep, forceful kiss, nor is it a light peck - it’s the perfect amount of pressure and care, and House hears the message behind it loud and clear:
I love you too.