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Warmth
by Housepiglet
A noise woke him, and he lay tense for a moment, ears straining, and unsure of where he was. A toilet flushed, though, and he remembered, and as the familiar sound died away he breathed again and turned over, stretching luxuriously.
In the low flicker of the television he saw the shadow that was House move slowly towards the kitchen, and he heard the sound of water running, and then a familiar rattle. He watched in silence as the shadow turned and stood for a moment in the doorway, and then, through cautious, half-lidded eyes, he continued to watch as House moved quietly across the room towards him, pausing first to dull the screen and then bending low towards the couch; reaching down with long, warm fingers, a half smile just visible on his shaded face, in order to confer the briefest of caresses.
He breathed again as House stood to go, and watched as he threaded his way carefully out of the room. He waited then for the familiar sound of the bedroom door closing, but the sound didn't come. He heard the light creaking of the bed as House settled back to sleep, but then the rooms grew silent again and there was nothing more to be heard.
-- ----- --
Some time later he sat uncertainly on the edge of House's bed, and gazed across to the sleeping man beside him. House now lay tangled in sheet and blankets, as untidy in sleep as ever he was when awake, but something about the careless scatter of extended limbs and softly curling fingers seemed to suggest warmth, and to convey a wordless invitation.
This was not the first time that he had watched House silently from the dark intimacy of this place, but until tonight fear had always held him back. He feared rejection, and above all the manner in which the expression of House's own most primal fears might crush and maim him. Tonight, though, his longing for the renewed warmth of human contact overcame his fears, and he began to move carefully across the bed.
As he eased himself cautiously beneath the covers, towards the crook of House's arm, his face brushed lightly against House's. House smelled so strongly of whiskey and Chinese food that he could almost taste them, and he touched his lips tentatively to House's warm mouth, and licked softly. House stirred, though, and he jumped back, heart pounding, afraid again to wake him. House didn't wake, though, and gradually he relaxed and drew closer.
From beneath the blankets he gazed again upon House, drawn almost irresistibly towards the warmth of his body, and by the easy rise and fall of his chest. House's shirt was skewed, and the soft, white skin of his warm, slightly concave belly lay exposed where the shirt had ridden up against his ribs. After a while he moved forwards and lowered himself carefully onto House's chest, and, as he relaxed gratefully into the comforting safety of shared warmth and closeness, the throb of House's heart pulsing rhythmically beneath his ear lulled him gently into sleep.
-- ----- --
It was several hours later when he woke, and he drifted lazily for some moments with eyes closed, basking in the unaccustomed warmth and enjoying once again the half-forgotten feel of a sleeping body lying next to his. A low moan and movement above disturbed him, though, and as House shifted onto his side he began to slip gently out from under the covers.
He made his way quietly back to his own bed, such as it was, and crawled in. He already missed the warmth and scent of House, and, as he snuggled deeper into his nest, he glanced inquisitively across at the sleeping form almost buried beneath blankets on the couch, and wondered again why men would sleep alone.
Had he been watching, Wilson might almost have believed he saw a happy smile spread across the ratty little face as Steve closed his eyes and wrapped his long tail tightly around his body. Alone on his couch, though, Wilson saw nothing; and soon the room grew silent again as, synchronised now in dreams, its occupants met in quiet contemplation beside the bed of the sleeping man in the next room.
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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