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A rattling sound woke Wilson; it was accompanied by the shifting of someone beside him. The rattling was a familiar sound, but the context seemed wrong even to his sleep-addled mind, and he was feeling far too stupid and slow at the moment to make the proper connections. But something definitely seemed off. His eyelids were unwilling to open just yet, so for the time being the mystery remained elusive.
The familiarity of the sound was somewhat comforting, but panic began as his other senses kicked in: these sheets, this mattress, this pillow -- they were all decidedly unfamiliar and Wilson's whole body tensed as everything clicked into place. He didn't dare move.
The someone who had shifted beside him, who had rattled an ever-present bottle of pills, spoke. "Are you going to keep pretending to be asleep, or are you going to make me breakfast?"
"Oh, god."
House. He was in House's bed. And House was there with him, sounding much too cheery for Wilson's liking.
Wilson had a hangover, that much was clear. He'd woken up at House's place with a hangover plenty of times, but never in the bedroom.
The night before, if Wilson could trust his memory, he'd worked late -- House was long gone for the day -- then went out for a drink somewhere close by the hospital. A bar near the hospital meant a bar near the university, and the place had been crawling with undergrads with fake IDs.
He'd only had a drink, maybe two. And he hadn't finished the second. He had bought another for a bold brunette with fantastic tits and a little too much makeup. He hadn't intended for anything to happen, but then again, he never really did. What a bad idea hitting on this girl was, though, didn't cross his mind until she laid a hand on his thigh and invited him back to her dorm room. Her dorm room. Wilson knew he didn't always make the best choices, but he didn't want that world of trouble.
After that, Wilson made a rather graceless exit and drove to House's.
House had let him in, he remembered; he'd helped himself to a beer from the fridge. House had played the piano while Wilson sat on his couch, drinking his beer, flipping through the channels on his tv with the sound on mute.
When Wilson finished his first beer, House stopped playing and got them each another. When he sat down, he grabbed the remote, and after that they watched whatever House wanted, which was pretty much how it always was.
It was then that things started getting blurry, but Wilson was positive there was more alcohol involved -- at least on his end. And he winced at the fuzzy memory of laying his head on House's shoulder and telling the other man he smelled nice.
Wilson rubbed at his eyes, "How?" No, that wasn't the right question. He tried again. "Why am I here, exactly?"
"You puked all over my couch."
Wilson groaned. He hoped it sounded something like an apology, because it was all he could get out at the moment.
"You're buying me a new one."
"Yeah, I'll get right on that."
House leaned over and picked something off his night stand. He waved it in front of Wilson's face: his American Express card. "You already have. You're very generous."
Wilson wished House would stop talking. But the chances of that happening were slimmer than Wilson finally finding success and growing old with a fourth wife. He also wished he could just roll over and go back to sleep. As much as he didn't want to move, however, getting out of the bed -- getting far, far away -- was a much better idea.
House's bed. Oh, god.
The realization that he was in bed with House finally sank in completely, with all the ramifications that might entail. Wilson did a quick inventory. His belt and tie were gone, along with his shoes. One sock was missing. The other was hanging half off his left foot. Otherwise, he was completely dressed, though very wrinkled.
"Don't worry, your virtue is still intact."
Wilson let out a breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding. Still, he wasn't in the clear: he knew he'd be living this down for months. Though, in all fairness, Wilson thought, he hadn't crawled into House's bed himself. At least he didn't think so. And House hadn't kicked him out. But somehow he didn't think the truth would matter all that much to House.
He decided to risk a glance at the other man. It was a bad idea.
House's grin was predatory. "You do, however, talk in your sleep."
-- end --