Work Text:
With a drawn-out sigh, Wilson runs his hands through his hair with just enough force to cause small pin pricks of pain against his scalp.
Anything to help him stay awake at this point.
It’s been a hectic day, more busy and mind-numbingly chaotic than usual. All he wants to do is go into his office and lay his head down on the desk, maybe after banging it against the wood a few times to get out the sudden lethargy weighing down his spine.
His feet shuffle lethargically in front of each other as he makes his way down the hallway, a hand automatically coming up to hide a yawn behind it. Good lord, he’s exhausted. More than he has been in a long time.
At first glance, the diagnostics office is empty. Which isn’t particularly odd, House likes to send his lackeys off on slightly unethical side quests all the time. The man himself could be stowed away just about anywhere, hell-bent on avoiding one Lisa Cuddy and the ever-lingering fear of clinic duty.
A small huff leaves his lips as he approaches his office. House, for all his shortcomings and general assholery, amuses him to a not-so-insignificant degree.
Ever since they’ve officially gotten together (and isn’t that something he never thought he would say) a few months ago, he’s been leaning more towards feeling gentle amusement and fondness for House’s shenanigans than his usual mild irritation and inconvenience.
Or maybe he’s always felt that way, and their blossoming no-definite-label-but-definitely-more-than-friends relationship just gave him an excuse to stop lying to himself and lean into it.
His hand finally reaches the doorknob of his office before swinging it open, more than ready to finally sit the fuck down after a bussling few hours of being on his feet.
A sudden sight makes him stop in his tracks.
House is perched on his couch, long limbs sprawled across the upholstery with an arm dramatically draped across his face and soft snores drifting through the dark room.
At the sound of the door and Wilson’s heavy footsteps, the prone body twitches before a blue eye peers out dramatically from under the arm.
They stare at each other for a moment before House blinks sleepily. “What?” He grouches, his voice sounding like a packet of gravel rolling down a highway.
Wilson swallows down the effect that voice register has on him, instead opting to cock a hip against the doorway and cross his arms against his chest. “I know preschool must be tough, but nap time’s over. If you try really hard and sound out all the letters, you’d know the door says James Wilson, M.D., and not Dr. Cuddy’s school for troubled kids.”
House just blinks again before moving his arm to fully cover his eyes, turning his body back into the couch. But not before Wilson catches a hint of a smile flicker at the corner of his mouth.
“I don’t make a habit of reading signs on closed doors,” House murmurs sleepily into his arm, “It’s so restricting,” he adds with a dramatic full-body shiver.
Right, he doesn’t have the time or the patience to enable House today. He’s about two seconds away from his feet giving out from under him.
“Move,” Wilson sighs and gestures toward the door out of House’s sight as he steps inside and closes it behind him.
So what if his actions are a bit contradictory to what he’s saying? He’s just tired, that’s all. House is perfectly capable of opening a door himself, regardless of the preschool analogy.
House just snuggles deeper into the cushions like a cat. “No,” he practically whines into the upholstery. “I’m tired.”
Wilson sighs, taking off his coat and making sure to hang it properly before beginning to roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt. “Don’t start, House. I’ve had a long day.”
“You always have a long day,” comes the muffled reply, almost lost with how close House is pressing his face into the couch.
It’s almost cute, damn him. Wilson focuses on shuffling off his shoes and aligning them to the base of his desk so he doesn’t have to directly face the older man.
“Yeah, well, it comes with the territory. Not everyone can haggle their way out of clinic hours and every other responsibility they have.” So maybe a bit of pettiness seeps through his voice, it’s just been that long of a day.
“Some of us have to work,” Wilson continues his lecture as he flops ungracefully into his desk chair with a dramatic groan he couldn’t stop if he had tried.
His muscles go pliant, and he takes a moment to shut his eyes and tip his head back and just breathe for a moment, regardless of any intruders.
Speaking of, “That can’t be comfortable,” House remarks from across the room, voice now sounding marginally clearer. Maybe he twisted back around to watch him, or maybe he just knows the oncologist so well that he can predict his next move without looking.
Wilson can’t find it within himself to open his eyes and check.
“It’s fine.” It really is fine. It’s infinitely better than being on his feet for one more second, even if the backrest is digging into his lower back.
“Wilson, your neck’s at an 85-degree angle. You’re gonna wake up with back pain and be even more insufferable,” House complains with some rustling against the couch.
Wilson tries to go to his happy place and ignore him. Unfortunately, ignoring House is just as efficient as painting a house with a toothbrush.
He can practically hear House rolling his eyes.
“Come here, dumbass,” the man goads with even more shuffling sounds. Wilson manages, with Herculean effort, mind you, to crack an eye open to stare at him through.
“Oh, you’re gonna let me have my own couch?” He snarks while looking at House through half an eye, “How incredibly thoughtful. Maybe I should play the lottery, a day like this will surely never come again.”
There’s a resulting groan before House is snarking back, “See, you haven’t sat five minutes and you’re already making my life harder. Just shut up and come over here,” House grumbles while pinning Wilson down with his piercing blue eyes.
Jesus Christ it feels like he’s under a microscope sometimes.
House is on his back now, both arms stretched under his head and one leg (the good one) propped up against the cushions. He looks as casual as breathing, effortlessly beautiful.
Rolling his eyes, Wilson shifts and convinces his body to stand just long enough to step over to the couch. His joints creak and groan in protest, prompting a small smirk to form on House’s face.
Now standing in front of his partner? they’re still a bit unclear with proper terminology, Wilson waits for House to make space.
The man, of course, does not.
“Really?” He surely can’t sound as exhausted as he feels, or as petulant.
House just raises a brow in response, not moving a single other muscle. Wilson sighs and turns back to go flop into his chair when a strong hand suddenly shoots out and grabs onto his leg, just below his knee.
“What?” He can’t stop the irritation from bleeding into his tone even as his leg warms with House’s strong grip. He’s always stronger than anyone ever gives him credit for, Wilson has to remind himself. The man was athletic as hell before the infarction.
House looks him dead in the eyes and pinpoints him with all the attention he’s ever wanted from the man. “Come here,” he repeats slowly, words carrying a subtle weight from a man who doesn’t like to repeat himself.
Brown eyes dart from House’s captivating gaze to the rest of his body. “Where, House? You’re doing a fine job of maximizing your real estate,” he flounders with a full body gesture that he hopes encompasses how annoyed he is.
House rolls his eyes with a sigh before he abruptly tugs, hard.
Wilson’s practically pulled backwards into the couch, his legs buckling as the back of his knees hit House’s body and force him to turn and fall sideways.
Of course, there are two calloused hands on his waist and arm, gently guiding the movement. When he’s done flailing, he’s lying directly parallel to House, on top of him and pressed against the back of the couch and the rest of House’s body.
His torso aligns with House’s, the rest of their bodies intertwined in one lump of limbs. He’s cuddled into House’s chest.
He peers up in shock at House’s amused expression. “See? Now was that so hard?”
Wilson can only blink at him for a moment before his brain whirls back to life. “What was that for?” He admonishes with a small wiggle, trying to get comfortable in the strange position.
Maybe he’s a bit too sleep-deprived, but House seems a bit…bashful? It’s under too much arrogance for him to be sure, though.
House smirks and runs a hand through Wilson’s hair. “You’re dead on your feet, idiot. You have a perfectly good couch, why not use it?”
The slightly odd, but rhythmic strokes of House’s fingers through his hair are incredibly soothing and almost make him fall asleep completely. Almost.
“You don’t mind?” Wilson asks quietly, knowing the man values his space. The soothing hand suddenly roughly ruffles his hair, making Wilson’s head bounce with the heavy motion.
He squints in displeasure and bats House’s hand away. To no avail, as the hand just comes back and begins poking around Wilson’s eyebrows.
“We’ve fucked in almost every position in my apartment. I’ve seen you strip to your undies and sing “Rhinestone Cowboy” on a bar top in rush hour. Why would this be the line I won’t cross?” House explains calmly with a pointed look in his eyes, pinning Wilson in place.
Huh, he guesses that makes sense. Still, “There’s a difference between being horny, drunk off my ass, and intimate. This,” he gestures to the pressing of their bodies, the almost vulnerable way Wilson is cradled on House’s side, head almost tucked into the man’s shoulder, “Is decidedly on the intimate side of the spectrum. Something you notoriously don’t do,” he adds with a light stab of his finger into House’s chest.
House grabs his finger and raises it to his lips, appearing like he’s about to kiss the digit before he puts it directly in his mouth and bites down.
“House!” Wilson whips his finger out with an incredulous laugh, eyes crinkling as he wipes the man’s saliva onto his ratty t-shirt. That’s what he gets.
“Do you have to analyze everything?” House asks in kind, eyes playfully tracking the now retrieved finger like a tiger stalking its prey.
“That’s rich, coming from you,” Wilson retorts, airy on a lingering laugh.
House just smiles before wrapping an arm around Wilson’s waist and pressing him in closer, enough so that House’s face is now largely out of sight with his new vantage point into the diagnostician’s shoulder.
They settle for a bit, and Wilson’s eyes are about two seconds away from shutting for the next eternity, when House speaks.
“Maybe you’re different,” he hears muffled into his hair. “I…don’t hate being close to you.”
Sound the wedding bells, cause House may as well have proposed with a yacht and a candlelit ceremony.
Wilson tries to hide his satisfied smile in the fabric of House’s shirt, but he’s sure the man can feel it anyway, that know-it-all. He nestles just a little bit closer in response.
He knows there’s only so far he can push the diagnostician. If he acknowledges the confession, then there’s a very distinct possibility House will get squeamish and make a deflecting joke or two before untangling them.
Wilson’s limbs hold House a bit tighter in preparation. Instead, he makes a soft, contented noise before finally letting himself close his eyes and lie on top of the hospital’s number one doctor.
Oh, speaking of the hospital that they’re both technically still on the clock for (even if House’s clock is mostly soap opera reruns and opportune naps).
“Mm,” Wilson mumbles sleepily, already feeling the pulling of sleep making everything fuzzy. “I have a meeting at-”
“Four,” House supplies, lightly bonking their heads together. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure your prepubescent cancer-lings don’t miss their favorite goody two-shoes doctor.”
Wilson wisely chooses to ignore the fact that House supposedly memorized his daily schedule.
“But you’re napping too?” His voice is nothing more than a husk now, too tired to put in any extra effort.
“Right again. You should get a gold star to go along with your shiny diplomas,” House remarks while sliding a calloused hand down Wilson’s back.
Wilson takes a moment to relish the feeling before adjusting so that his nose nestles in further to House’s shoulder. “How are you gonna wake-?”
“So many questions, Jimmy,” House tuts with an undercurrent of fondness and a soft pat to his back. “Military brat, remember? I’ll wake you up.”
Wilson huffs in response and deigns to just settle in, for the moment ignoring House’s less-than-stellar track record of waking up on time, ready to work.
…it lasts for all of three seconds until the perpetual do-gooder in Wilson gets anxious at the very realistic possibility that House will let him sleep through the rest of his shift.
He wouldn’t put it past the man to let him doze off as some sort of experiment to test his boundaries, or done in the name of being a good boyfriend? is that what they are? and letting him sleep.
There’s a soft rumble before he asks, “Do you have an alarm set? I need to be ready by 3:45 or else-”
“If you don’t stop asking questions, I’m gonna find another way to shut you up,” House leers while his hand drifts directly onto Wilson’s ass and squeezes pointedly.
With the last bit of strength he has, he manages an eye roll and reaches over to remove House’s wandering hand, placing it securely under his own, resting on House’s firm chest.
“No, stay,” Wilson orders with a single pat to the now trapped hand. He can feel House pouting childishly above him.
There are a few moments of blessed silence. The soft hum of the air conditioner with the warmth of House’s body and the sound of his gentle breathing almost succeed in lulling him to sleep.
Almost.
A slight rustle, then House’s other hand (the one Wilson isn’t currently trapping under his own) lifts from the upholstery. With a slowing heart rate, Wilson just lies there and prepares for impact: he knows exactly where it’s going to land.
Soon enough, House places his hand firmly back on Wilson’s ass and keeps it there squarely.
“House,” he mumbles threateningly, but probably sounds more like a disgruntled kitten if House’s huff of amusement is anything to go by.
“What?” House replies with an exasperated tone. “I can’t look in the store without buying anything?” He questions with a pointed squeeze and probably a self-satisfied smile stretched across his handsome face.
Wilson turns and places a soft kiss against House’s neck. “You’re unbelievable.”
House can try to hide how much he loves the affection, but he can’t hide the soft heat in his cheeks. “Well, it’s actually pretty believable how perverted my brain is wired. It’s actually pretty inhumane to deny me, now that I think about it. It should be a punishable offense, right next to your lethal Bambi eyes when you don’t get your way-”
“House,” Wilson grouches over the older man’s tirade. “Shut up.”
For once, House listens. “Fine. I’ll wax poetic about your ass later. I’m getting new material every second,” he says with a lecherous squeeze to said ass.
Wilson just ignores him and finally closes his eyes, letting himself settle into the firm curve of this ridiculous man.
With just the cool air of his office and House’s warmth surrounding him, it’s not long before he begins to nod off again.
Just as he’s on the cusp of losing consciousness, House leans down and kisses him gently on the forehead.
“Finally. Go to sleep, stupid,” the older man mutters into Wilson’s hair while he holds him just a bit tighter.
And sleep he will.