Chapter Text
House couldn’t sleep.
The room was dark except for the faint amber glow of the streetlamp leaking through the curtains. Beside him, Stacy was curled into his side, her head resting against his shoulder, breathing slow and even. Every now and then, she made a soft snuffling sound, the kind of noise that, on a good night, he might have found endearing.
Tonight, it just grated.
He stared up at the ceiling, counting the faint cracks in the plaster that he’d been meaning to get fixed for months. His mind wouldn’t stop. It never did. It hopped from one thought to the next - the patient who’d nearly died because his interns were idiots, Cuddy breathing down his neck about clinic hours, his father.
And Stacy.
He glanced down at her, at the way she fit so perfectly against him, soft and warm and familiar. He loved her, in the way House loved anyone. Reluctantly, awkwardly, with far too many defences in the way. She made him happy, mostly. But even now, when everything in his life was stable - good, even - he couldn’t quiet that persistent hum of restlessness under his skin.
He wondered what was wrong with him.
He shifted slightly, careful not to wake her, and stared at the clock on the bedside table. 12:37 a.m.
Brilliant.
He could get up, have a drink, maybe go play the piano. But the thought of disturbing Stacy and having to explain why he was awake again was exhausting in itself. So he lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about anything in particular, which, of course, only made him think more.
Work. Stacy. And, unbidden, Wilson.
He wasn’t even sure how that one had slipped in. Wilson, with his over-earnest eyes and irritating moral compass. Wilson, who somehow managed to make the whole ‘do-gooder’ thing look genuine. Wilson, who’d become, without House’s permission, the closest thing he had to a friend.
House closed his eyes and tried to force the thought away. Thinking about Wilson always led somewhere uncomfortable, to feelings he didn’t want to name, to the way his chest sometimes loosened when Wilson smiled at him, or the way his brain always felt sharper when Wilson was nearby, challenging him, grounding him.
House craved Wilson. He craved his attention and was willing to do just about anything to get it. He knew it was stupid - interrupting him with patients, pranking him at work, calling him when drunk. But so long as Wilson was looking at him, House was content. In the brief time they’d been friends, they had become codependent. Stacy teased them about it often. But to House’s relief, it didn’t seem to bother Wilson. He seemed to need House back.
House sighed. He felt sick with the desire to be the centre of Wilson’s world.
He was halfway through convincing himself to stop thinking altogether when a sound cut through the silence.
A knock.
It was faint at first, a single, hesitant rap. Then another, louder. Then another, urgent.
Stacy murmured something sleepily beside him, turning over, her hair brushing against his arm.
House frowned. Who the hell would be at his door at this time of night?
He swung his legs out of bed, wincing as the cool air hit his bare feet. His joints twinged in protest as he stood.
“Greg?” Stacy mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.
He looked back to face her. Her eyes blinked blearily at him and House reached forward and brushed her hair off her face.
“Go back to sleep,” he muttered. “Probably Jehovah’s Witnesses.”
She made a small noise of amusement, or maybe it was a snore, and settled again.
The knocking came again, harder this time.
House sighed, running a hand over his face as he walked down the hallway. Whoever this was, they’d better have a good reason for waking him up in the middle of the night.
House opened the door to find Wilson leaning heavily against the frame, one hand braced on the wall for balance. He was smiling, far too widely, his tie askew, hair ruffled, eyes glassy. He was drunk. Completely.
“House!” Wilson said brightly, with the enthusiasm of a man who’d just invented happiness.
House blinked at him. “Well, if it isn’t the Ghost of Terrible Life Choices.”
Wilson’s smile faltered for a moment before reforming, loopy and unbothered. “You’re awake,” he said, as if that was a miracle worth celebrating.
“Not by choice,” House muttered, stepping aside and gesturing to him to come in. “Come on then, before you start making friends with the neighbours.”
Wilson stumbled past him into the apartment, narrowly avoiding a collision with the umbrella stand. House closed the door, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
Having Wilson living nearby was brilliant. Convenient too, for both of them, really. After that convention a few years back, they’d gone from acquaintances to something far closer. Not to sound like a teenager scribbling in a diary, but Wilson was his best friend.
So when the opening at Princeton-Plainsboro had come up, of course House had asked him to apply. (Not begged, no matter what Wilson liked to claim. He might have hinted. Strongly. Repeatedly. Until Wilson agreed to meet with Cuddy.)
And, naturally, Wilson had got the job. Of course, he’d packed up his life and his second wife and moved to New Jersey.
It was great.
House loved it.
He loved knowing Wilson was only ten minutes away, loved that he could wander into his office whenever he fancied an argument, or a coffee, or just the reassuring sound of Wilson sighing disapprovingly at him. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but life had felt oddly quieter before Wilson arrived, duller somehow.
Wilson was… different. Special, in a way House didn’t have the language for. Too earnest, too kind, too stupidly moral… and yet, despite all that, he stayed.
And House, for all his cynicism, couldn’t quite imagine not having him there.
He turned to face his drunken friend. “What are you doing here? Forgot where you live again?”
“Bonnie and I had a fight,” Wilson huffed, shrugging off his jacket. “Didn’t want to stay there. Wanted to see you.”
Of course he did. House had half expected it. Every time Wilson and Bonnie had a fight, which was becoming all too often, House inevitably found himself drafted into the role of emotional triage nurse. He told himself he didn’t mind. Hell, he liked it. He liked having Wilson depend on him. He liked having Wilson need him. He liked having Wilson want him. House refused to unpack that. Wilson’s presence was a fixture now, one House had come to rely on far more than he’d ever admit.
A sleepy voice drifted from down the hall.
“Greg?” Stacy’s silhouette appeared in the doorway, hair tousled, eyes squinting.
House shot her a faintly apologetic look. “Just Wilson. Go back to bed.”
She looked over at Wilson and smiled. “Of course,” she nodded, muttering under her breath, “who else,” before disappearing again.
House barely watched her go, instead he turned back to Wilson. “You really have impeccable timing, you know that?”
Wilson gave a lazy grin. “You love it.”
“I tolerate it,” House corrected.
Wilson didn’t argue. Instead, he stepped closer and, with a drunken sigh, rested his head on House’s shoulder. The move was casual, thoughtless and it undid House completely.
He froze. The smell of Wilson’s aftershave hit him first, clean and warm. His hair brushed against House’s jaw, and that was it - his brain betrayed him, filling with every thought it shouldn’t. He shouldn’t notice how soft Wilson’s hair looked. Or how easily his body fitted against his. Or how the simple weight of him felt dangerously comforting.
“You’re a mess,” House muttered at last, voice quieter than he’d intended.
Wilson chuckled against his shoulder. “You like messes.”
House huffed. “Yeah. Collect them, actually. You’re just the latest addition.”
Wilson gave a faint laugh that faded into a sigh, his head still resting against House. “Just needed somewhere to go,” he murmured, half-asleep already. “Wanted to see you.”
House stared at the top of his head. The ache in his chest wasn’t irritation, though that’s what he told himself. It was something heavier, something he couldn’t afford to name. He wanted to wrap his arms around Wilson. He wanted to pull him close, never let him go. He wanted to press his lips to Wilson’s stupidly soft hair.
He swallowed, his mind flashing to Stacy who was in bed - their bed. He forced himself to think of her. He loved her, he did. And Wilson… Wilson was his friend. Best friend. He closed his eyes as he collected his thoughts.
Wilson huffed tiredly. He tilted his head where it rested on House’s shoulder and his lips brushed House’s neck in a breathy exhale and House… House could barely breathe.
“Come on,” House said softly, disentangling himself. “Let’s not add vomit to my collection of poor life choices.”
He guided Wilson towards the couch, steering him down gently. Wilson blinked up at him with sleepy eyes. His expression was so fond. Even drunk, Wilson’s expression was so full of warmth, and House couldn’t remember anyone ever looking at him with that much affection.
Not his mother, definitely not his father. None of his friends (not that he’d had many). Not even Stacy.
House sighed. “Stay there.”
He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a glass of water. “Drink this. It’s like whisky, except rubbish.”
Wilson took it, blinking at him blearily. “You’re a good friend, you know.”
House raised an eyebrow. That was not something House had ever been accused of. “You’re drunk.”
“Still true. Best friend I’ve ever had.”
The words landed somewhere deep, somewhere House didn’t want them to. He shrugged, pretending the warmth in his chest was nothing. “Drink the water, Wilson.”
Wilson obeyed, then looked up at him again. “Can I stay here?”
House hesitated. Stacy was asleep in the next room. Wilson was drunk, vulnerable and too tempting for his own good. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to let him stay, to fall asleep on the couch, to wake up to him in the morning. But he couldn’t. He didn’t trust himself not to want too much.
So he picked up the phone and called for a cab. Wilson gave him a look so pathetic that House nearly caved. But he didn’t. Instead, he sat on the couch beside Wilson, shoulders pressed together, and made him drink more water.
When the lights from the taxi appeared outside ten minutes later, Wilson groaned. “Already?”
House nodded. “Yeah. Time to go home.”
“I don’t want to go home,” Wilson muttered, voice small.
He sounded exhausted and House almost felt guilty about sending him home to his angry wife, who would no doubt be even angrier that Wilson was coming home drunk. Especially if she found out Wilson had stopped by to see him.
“I know,” House said quietly. “But you should.”
He helped him to his feet, steadying him when he wobbled. Wilson looked up, eyes warm and unfocused. “You’ll still be here tomorrow?”
House forced a smirk. “Unfortunately.”
Wilson’s smile lingered for a heartbeat before he let House guide him to the door.
House watched as the cab pulled away, the yellow glow of the streetlamps glinting off the roof. He told himself he was only making sure Wilson got home safe. But deep down, he knew that wasn’t true.
He’d said “Go home,” but what he’d really meant was Stay.
House sighed wearily and made his way back to the bedroom. He swallowed hard as he lifted the blanket and slid back into bed. The sheets were still warm from where he’d left them. Stacy immediately shifted in her sleep, curling instinctively against his side, her cheek resting over his chest and her hand splaying lightly against his shirt.
“Wilson?” she murmured, voice slurred with drowsiness. The question was soft, half-conscious, but it still hit him like a blow.
House hesitated, staring at the ceiling. The faint smell of whisky still clung to his skin. He could picture Wilson’s face as he’d leaned against him earlier, flushed, smiling, eyes too gentle. For a moment, just one brief, impossible moment, he’d wanted to keep him there.
He forced a breath. “He’s gone home,” he said quietly.
Stacy hummed sleepily and relaxed again, drifting back off.
House lay there in the dark, staring into nothing. He could still feel the weight of Wilson’s head on his shoulder, the warmth of him, the quiet comfort of his presence. The flat felt emptier now that Wilson had gone.
He closed his eyes and tried to push the thought away. The ridiculous urge to get up, call a cab, and go after him.
“Go home,” he’d told him.
But he didn’t remember ever wanting someone to stay quite so much.