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When Wilson wakes up, the first thing he sees is that it’s dim.
Really dim, for a hospital with glass walls. The blinds have been pulled shut for him, and he’s got his own room even though he swore that he didn’t need a private one. The second thing he sees is House, asleep in a chair by his bedside. His glasses are sliding down his nose, and a patient chart is in his lap. He blinks a few times, wincing as he pushes himself up on his elbows.
The surgery had gone fine. He feels fine, just groggy from the anesthesia. His abdomen aches faintly, but that was to be expected, and it’s only really a problem if he tries to run a marathon or something ridiculous like that. It’s dead silent except for the beeping of the heart monitor—he turns his head slightly. His vitals are normal.
House’s cane is hung up on his IV pole. He rolls his eyes, but smiles despite himself.
He hears the glass door slide open, and glances over to see Cuddy poking her head in, her gaze flickering between him and House. Something in her demeanor shifts, so subtle that Wilson only barely noticed in the first place. “You’re awake,” she sighs in relief. “How’re you feeling?”
“I woke up about two minutes ago, so still kind of disoriented.” He leans against the pillows. “How long has House been here?”
“The entire time you’ve been out, actually. He pulled an all-nighter last night and I told him to get sleep instead, but he insisted on being here. Careful moving like that, I don’t want you to pull your stitches.” Cuddy crosses her arms and smiles— “You need anything?”
He shakes his head. “I’m all set. Thanks, though. Really.”
Cuddy smiles, eyes crinkling softly, and she nods. “Get some rest.” She gives House one last glance, lingering on him a little longer than normal. “He was worried about you. I told him to talk to you, but he won’t. You should talk to him.”
Wilson nods quietly. “Yeah. Okay.”
“You both have the communication skills of mosquitoes. Which is too nice, at least they buzz in your ear.”
“Okay, okay, I get it. I’ll talk to him.”
“Rest up.”
Cuddy turns and leaves, sliding the door shut behind her. Wilson worries that the sound of them talking might have woken House up, but he’s still out like a light. Speaking of House—
House had been there the whole time. The last thing that he had said to Wilson was that he wouldn’t be there for the surgery. Had implied he wouldn’t be there for recovery, either. His reasoning had been sweet, in its own selfish, twisted way, but still. He had said he wouldn’t be there. And Cuddy was telling him that he hadn’t left his side.
He lies back down, exhausted from holding himself up on his elbows, and turns his head to look at House. He was gentler like this. They were both gentler, in these positions. It was not a gentle friendship, not a gentle life for either of them. He wishes it could stay like this for a little longer.
…Of course, that was a far-fetched dream. About thirty seconds later, House opens his eyes like a sleeper agent hearing the first warning shots of battle in Vietnam.
Readjusting, he blinks a few times, before sitting up and zeroing in on Wilson. “You’re awake. Finally. I was beginning to think you were messing with me.”
Wilson rolls over to face him properly, wincing a bit as it pulls on his stitches, the skin still tender around where it had been cut open. “How long was I out?”
“You’ve been asleep for about four hours, but for one of those hours you did wake up and talk nonsense.”
He rubs his temples, already dreading whatever House would say next because being half-lucid and high on anesthetics while House was anywhere near him was a horrible idea. Why had he even asked him to come by in the first place? “Did I say anything while I was under anesthesia?”
“You thought I was your beautiful transvestite girlfriend and asked me to ride into the sunset with you. Is there something you’re not telling me, Wilson? Promise I won't judge.”
“I’m not—House, I’m serious. Did I say anything?”
House pulls his autistic Kubrick stare before speaking again. “Your patient is fine, by the way, since I assume you care about that, even though he’s a self-important jerk. Gets discharged in a couple days.” He closes the patient file, which is still on his lap, and tosses it onto the overbed table. Wilson glances down at the name on the front, and sure enough, it’s him. He flips to the last page and he’s been marked for discharge. It almost distracts him enough to make him forget about how House avoided his question.
“The surgery was successful, then,” Wilson sighs. “That’s all I can hope for at this point. At least I didn’t do this for nothing.”
“You knew it would succeed. You wouldn’t have done it if you had had a doubt in your mind.”
“Obviously I wouldn’t have done it if there was much risk, but you can never know how it’ll turn out. That’s how it goes with any surgical procedure. You know that, House.”
“Just saying that you shouldn’t be surprised.”
“I’m not surprised! Just relieved! For all I know, I could have misdiagnosed him. I’m not a diagnostician.”
“He was jaundiced! Of course he needed a liver transplant!”
“I don’t know! Jesus, House, I’m just happy that my friend is okay. It’s not that deep.”
House doesn’t respond. Wilson shifts uncomfortably in the silence. Silence around House was rarely uncomfortable, but it felt more like he was being studied like bacteria than anything else. Part of him wants to ask again what he had said while he was loopy, or why he had shown up when he said he wasn’t going to, but he doesn’t want to risk him leaving now.
He exhales and starts to speak. “Look—”
“You’re not a doormat. Well, you are, but it’s not the worst thing you could be. You could be an idiot.”
“Gee, House, you really know how to make a guy feel special.”
“Thought I would clear the air. You did a good thing.”
—It’s the closest that Wilson will get to an apology and the closest thing to a compliment that House will give him for a while. House scoots his chair closer to Wilson’s bedside, and he half expects House to grab his cane and get up to leave, but he doesn’t. Wilson shifts the overbed table aside so it isn’t blocking the space between them, and as he retracts his hand, House catches his wrist, thumb resting just below his palm.
Wilson looks down at House’s hand. His fingers haven’t shifted from “Did my wrist personally offend you or something?”
House snorts. “Your wrist is too dainty and feminine to do that, don’t be ridiculous.”
“Right. And yours aren’t, because you spend all your time jacking off to the picture on your Madonna CD.”
“I mean, have you seen those tits? Great material for leg acupuncture.”
Wilson glances down to House’s other hand, the one that isn’t grasping his wrist. It’s rubbing his leg. His eyes flicker back up to meet his gaze. “Your leg hurts?” He pushes himself up a bit to prop himself up against the pillows. “You should go home. Lie down or something.”
“It’s fine. I’m used to it.” House stops rubbing his leg. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No, but—” Wilson sighs, exasperated. “I don’t want you to stay here if you’re in pain. Those chairs aren’t comfortable. Believe me, I know. If Cuddy told you to be here, you don’t have to. It’s fine.” He has no idea why he’s pushing so hard when he wants House there, he doesn’t want to be alone—it’s why he invited House to the surgery in the first place, because he hated the idea of being alone, surrounded by strangers while he got cut into and stitched back together.
House’s hand strengthened around his wrist. “Cuddy didn’t tell me to be here. You did.” He shifts his thumb.
“And my word is gospel now? Look—”
“Shut up. I’m looking for something.” House slides his grip a little lower. He narrows his eyes.
Wilson looks at him, concerned. “Are you sure you’re okay? What are you looking for?”
“Your pulse, idiot.”
“My heart monitor is literally right the—”
“What part of ‘shut up’ didn’t get through your head?”
Because if you die—
Wilson stares at him as he feels for his pulse. House, who is feeling his pulse, relaxing as he finds a steady beat, because—
I’m alone.
Sighing, he interlocks their fingers. House looks at him, annoyed, but refrains from taking his hand away. Already the whole thing is softer than they are, and Wilson knows he’s a bit too far past the point of no return to go back now.
“Come here, you big asshole. You’re the real self-important jerk here.” Wilson pulls House towards him. “If you’re feeling for my pulse, go for the source.”
“This is a strange way of asking me to fondle your tits, Wilson. All you need to do is ask. In this relationship, we’re all about consent and understanding.” House shakes his head in faux disappointment.
He rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Look, House, you’re tired and that chair isn’t comfortable. I’m telling you to lie on my chest so you can feel my pulse and also get some sleep.” It sounds way more stupid when he says it out loud, and he’s fully prepared for House to laugh him right back into arguing with him like always, but it’s worth a shot. “Okay, ignoring me completely is worse than just saying no. It was an idea.”
“I’m not saying no, I’m processing. Always so quick to jump to conclusions. This is why your wives left you.” House shifts his chair impossibly closer. Contemplatively, he rests his free palm on Wilson’s chest, right over his heart. His pulse spikes very subtly, and Wilson likes to think that House wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t hooked up to the heart monitor. It’s a lie. Whatever.
He seems to space out for a moment staring at Wilson. It’s an impossibly quiet moment. Impossibly quiet, because House is never quiet, and Wilson is never quiet when House is around, and this whole interaction has a kind of intimacy that they haven’t really explored before. Maybe an intimacy that has been there, but never one that they’d bothered to acknowledge for any extended period of time.
House slowly moves to rest his head on Wilson’s chest. It can’t be comfortable to lean over like that, over the edge of the bed. He closes his eyes. “We’re okay.”
“We’re okay,” Wilson agrees.
“You’re here.”
“I’m here.”
He places his hand atop House’s head, carding his fingers through his short, nearly greying hair. Wilson’s tired, and he’ll be in the hospital for a week, maybe a little less if he can twist Cuddy around his finger in order to get early discharge. Well. He’s considering it, but the times that House has tried that, it hasn’t gone so well. Maybe not.
“My back hurts,” House complains after about five minutes. “This was a terrible idea. Preying on the sick and crippled.”
Wilson pinches the bridge of his nose. “I told you that you didn’t have to! You were the one who went through with it! It’s not like I forced your head down or anything!”
“I wouldn’t have had to do this if you so graciously invited me into your hospital bed. Now I’ll get scoliosis and have double the pain. Which means double the opioids!”
“Jesus. Just get in. Or get out. I’m exhausted.”
House stands up the best he can and hoists himself onto the bed, squishing himself in between the bed rails and Wilson himself. It’s a tight squeeze and probably not much more comfortable—Wilson is lucky that his IV tube is on the other arm—but House can rest his head on his chest much more easily now. He slides his arm around his back and keeps practically petting his hair.
“And you were confused as to why everyone in the apartment building thought we were gay,” House muses. “Here we are, cuddling. All you need to do now is start singing songs from A Chorus Line again and it’ll be like it’s true.” He shifts a bit, pressing his ear closer to Wilson’s heart. The monitor beeps a little faster in the background, just for a moment. It doesn’t go unnoticed, but neither of them comment on it.
“Go to bed, House.”
“Okay, mom.”
They sit there for a bit, before Wilson speaks up again. “Are you sure I didn’t say anything under anesthesia?”
“If you did, I wouldn’t tell you. It’s funnier that way. Keeps you on your toes.”
…By the time House falls asleep, Wilson is already half asleep himself. He can feel the exhaustion from the surgery and the grogginess from the painkillers dragging him under, and he presses his nose to House’s hair as he closes his eyes. He smells like antibiotics and whiskey. What a fascinating combination.
He supposes that like this, neither of them are alone.