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His finger hovered over the delete button only momentarily. Obviously Wilson doesn't need to know about the new offer on the apartment. The thought of Wilson moving out… something about that makes House's heart twinge.
I won't let him freeload forever, but a little longer wouldn't hurt.
Wilson brings the apartment alive. Before he moved in, things only changed if House changed them, which is to say never, but now there's food in the fridge and a second toothbrush in the bathroom. Things aren't always where he left them, but for once that doesn't bother him. Like a reminder that he's not alone as he thought.
A nice change of pace, it absolutely does not mean anything about my inner desires.
The evening goes on without anything worthy of note. Wilson was already asleep, when House was still looking for distractions to avoid the inevitable confrontation with his thoughts, as per usual. His eyes slid over the living room in search of his gameboy when they stopped on the figure on the couch.
Wilson's chest was rising in a rhythmic manner that put House’s cares to rest. For some reason that's something he instinctively looked for- a simple sign of life. The clock ticked persistently closer to 1am and the occasional car would roar past them, below on the street, a whole world away. Their headlights only passed the living room windows, no light from the outside of this room could reach them.
It was so overwhelmingly quiet, but the world was still alive and so were they, though sometimes House wasn't so sure about himself being alive. But Wilson definitely was and that's what mattered.
Wilson goes to bed at 10 and wakes at 6.30, a paragon of a Guy With His Shit Together (on the outside). He's going through a divorce, but his dinners all have the major food groups. He blames himself for how everything turned out, but he even flosses. Maybe functioning like a human is a coping mechanism? House laughed at that idea and suddenly he found it hard to believe that someone would divorce a guy like Wilson. Sure, he might start avoiding you if there's the slightest indication of conflict, but he wears an apron when cooking pancakes on the weekends, guys like him should be held onto, no matter how much they lie to themselves and you.
To House it's not a hunch, that he blames himself for the way things are. Partly because he is to blame (maybe she wouldn't have cheated, if Wilson treated her like his wife instead of House), but his quiet defeatism spells out his feelings of guilt in big bold letters. He had never even uttered a word of accusation towards her, though he barely spoke about the divorce. The silent acceptance of reality was present in his eyes, before he even stepped foot into the apartment. You'd think he'd rant and yell and maybe even cry, you'd think he'd act like a guy getting over a divorce.
I wonder if there was even anything in the relationship to mourn?
And then there's the ever present silent thank-yous he's been leaving around the apartment. They were unspoken and remained unmentioned. House wasn't entirely sure if Wilson was even consciously aware of them or not. The gratitude was in the silence, when House ate Wilson’s lunch again, but Wilson didn't mention it, or when House made a mess of Wilson's ironed shirts while he was storming through the apartment, as destructive as a tornado. A thank you of silence for providing normalcy while Wilson's life was getting torn apart once again, for staying as the only constant.
By that breakthrough, House realized he had been staring at his unconscious friend for a while now and finally went to bed.
°°°
He didn't stay asleep for long, though. No more than something like three hours. He's always found sleeping more like a chore- a hard one at that.
The cold sweat and the deepest, most barren hours of the night were as much of a routine as Vicodin refills. The nightmares became more frequent after Wilson started staying over.
The closer you are, the easier you get hurt, but I can't bear to let you go.
This time it was an especially insidious one. House could still recall all too vividly the panicked confusion of no longer finding any sign of him anywhere. At first he had thought that Wilson was sick, but when he had questioned Cuddy about it, she showed no sign of recognition. The head of the oncology department had been some old bitch House didn't care about for years. Not only had Wilson disappeared from work, he had disappeared from every corner of House's life he had been present in. No phone number in the contact list, no text conversations. Not a sign that anyone had ever known a man by the name of James Evan Wilson. House was truly and terrifyingly alone, left only with a confusing and fading memory of a man he thought he knew.
House had jolted awake right before he had managed to call Wilson's mother to ask where her son went.
Cold sweat stuck his t-shirt to his back and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't catch his breath. He gripped his chest, as if pressing could slow his heart rate. If such a thing could ever work, it definitely wouldn't have worked with his weak and shaking hands. What's worse, he was shaking internally as well. Deep unease settled into the inner corners of his bones and his bedroom seemed to get farther and farther away from him, as if his consciousness was sliding away from the world. His insides twisted as if a terrified animal was trying to curl up in his rib cage, pulling everything else into a twist as well.
The darkness was closing in around him and all he could think was: “What if? What if I won't find a second toothbrush in the bathroom anymore? What if I won't even find empty bed sheets on the couch?” The rational part of House's mind knew that such a thing was simply not possible. He was there a few hours ago, why wouldn't he be now? But it can't hurt to check… right?
He limped carefully to the living room, holding his breath until the couch came into view. House sighed deeply when Wilson was still laying on his back as he was a few hours ago, wrapped in a blanket as if nothing could disturb his sweet dreams.
Still it wasn't enough.
He couldn't just go back to his bedroom now. Sure, he's here now, but what if something happens? House spent his days curing patients who were fine one minute and convulsing due to a blood clot the next and if his job taught him anything, it's that no one is special and this could happen to anyone. And of course the fact that everyone lies. Maybe Wilson's been lying as well. Maybe he has an odd ache in his chest he'd been ignoring. An ache that has been waiting for the perfect moment to strike and take Wilson's life away from House.
Maybe I should stay a bit longer, just in case.
Carefully he perched himself on the edge of the couch, focusing on Wilson's deep breaths. The storm in him began to calm. If only he could get closer. Without too much forethought he pulled down the blanket just enough and rested his ear on Wilson's chest. At least everything sounded alright. Maybe he could rest there for a moment longer. Just a bit. The warmth of Wilson's existence grounded House to at least stop the shaking. The slow beating of his heart tethered him back to this reality. The scared animal in him seemed to stop the struggling as well.
He may have feared Wilson's existence to stop, but now it was replaced by the feeling of everyone else's existence fading, but he didn't care about that. Maybe House even wished for that a little bit. For everyone else to disappear so he could stay in this peaceful bubble forever.
The dark was no longer so claustrophobic.
Relief rushed into his bloodstream and against his will he had realized that tears were rolling down his cheeks onto Wilson's painstakingly ironed pyjamas. That's when House felt Wilson's breath hitch. The slightest of movements was more than enough for House to retreat, but Wilson, consciously or semi-consciously, that House did not know, placed his hand on House’s head to lazily pull him back against his chest. House complied and rested his head back, hands still on either side of Wilson's torso.
“C'mere” He mumbled under his breath sleepily.
Immediately, confusion returned, but this time with a spark of curiosity. Maybe he shouldn't have done any of this in the first place, but it's too late for that now.
Wilson buried his fingers in House's graying hair, caressing him with his thumb. He didn't want to admit it to himself, but it sent shivers down his spine. This time he didn't hate the shivers. He went along with Wilson's little movements, using this opportunity to bury his face in his chest, involuntarily letting out shaky breaths.
When Wilson didn't seem to show signs of stopping this act of comfort, House took the risk of lifting his feet onto the couch as well, since he had still been sitting bent over. He had to shift his weight to lift the bad leg, which caused Wilson to stir once again. For a moment he lifted his hand as he pressed himself more against the backrest as if to make more room for House.
House complied without protest and reassumed their previous position, only this time they were laying on their sides. One of Wilson's arms laid straight under House's head, hanging over the edge of the couch a bit. His other arm was embracing House's head, once again caressing his hair with his thumb.
House melted against Wilson's chest. They breathed slow, deliberate breaths in unison and House roped his arms around Wilson's waist, gripping it as if he was holding on for dear life.
He didn't want this to end, so when he felt Wilson drift back to sleep, he let himself drift as well. Just this once, just for a brief moment. He'll go back to his bed soon. He will.
He didn't.