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Stealth Karma
by Topaz Eyes
It's past eleven when Wilson finally makes it back home from the hospital with another two hours' worth of paperwork straining his briefcase. The apartment is dark and silent when Wilson opens the front door, though House's motorcycle is parked out front as usual. It's uncharacteristic for House, who normally likes to wait up when Wilson works late, just to rub it in.
Wilson drops the briefcase onto the welcome mat, flips on the hall light, hoping that House decided to retire early. When he scans the living room, it doesn't take long to track down House's whereabouts; he's crashed on the couch, seemingly out cold.
"Great," Wilson murmurs, "just great." Possum-playing bastard.
The thermostat setback has already kicked in; the room temperature is a chilly sixty-five degrees. House can't be comfortable in the cool air, lying there in just a T-shirt, socks and jeans: though with his hands folded on his stomach and head turned to one side on the cushion, it's hard to tell.
Yet House doesn't open his eyes when he approaches. Wilson rounds the couch, peers down, covers House's hands with his own to check. His skin is rough, dry and cold to the touch. House frowns and shifts a bit under the pressure, but doesn't stir otherwise.
Wilson stands contemplating the scene for a moment, whether to wake him and send him off to bed so he can use the dining table to finish his monthly reports. Except he knows, forcing him upright at this hour would only rouse him to full consciousness. He'd then stay up the rest of the night, fill it with restless cane thumps and murmured television.
In the end, Wilson decides it'd be kinder to leave him there. He goes to fetch a fleece blanket from the hall closet.
A minute later Wilson returns with the bundle in his arms; he kneels, spreads the blanket over House. Gently he tugs it over his feet, tucks it in loosely around his neck. House sighs and slides deeper into the couch cushions. The forgiving glow of the hall lamp highlights the silver in House's temples and beard, smooths the lines around his eyes; catches the tiny, glistening pool of moisture gathered at the corner of his mouth. It's--endearing, if such a word could be used to describe it; so much so, that Wilson has to squash an insane urge to tousle House's hair.
Wilson wishes he had his digital camera on-hand to take pictures, bear witness to this vulnerability that House hardly ever shows. Don't forget about the blackmail fodder, his inner devil's advocate--the one who sounds exactly like House--suggests gleefully.
Wilson's tempted to. He would, in fact, if he knew where House had hid his camera in the first place.
He checks himself before he gets up to look. If House found out--and Wilson knows just how uncanny House's prank detection powers are--it would be Wilson's head Photo-shopped over a sleeping baby's face and plastered over Princeton-Plainsboro's bulletin boards first. Another occupational hazard of having this abrasive jackass for a best friend: House plays practical jokes to the death.
He's going to be the death of me, Wilson thinks. At that he smiles to himself, realizing that the notion has lost its ability to disturb him anymore. In fact, his resignation to his fate feels as comfortable and lived-in as his McGill sweatshirt. After everything between them--everything they've gained, and lost, and gained again--he wouldn't have it any other way.
The impulse comes out of nowhere. Before he second-guesses himself about it, he leans down and presses his lips just above House's eyebrow, a soft, feather-light kiss. Wilson doesn't care how far beyond crazy this goes from the previous urge he'd squelched. He simply lets his guards down, lets the warm flood of affection towards this impossible man overwhelm him.
It lasts only a moment, however; beneath his lips, Wilson feels the puzzled wrinkles form on House's forehead. He draws back, his cheeks flaming; fully expecting House's eyes to fly open, to catch him in this act of stealth tenderness. It doesn't happen, though, much to his relief--he rises, pads to the hall to switch off the light, then heads to the bathroom. He's too tired. The damn paperwork can wait until morning.
At daylight, when Wilson stumbles out of the bedroom, House is still asleep on the couch, curled on his side beneath the blanket. Wilson takes care not to disturb him during his morning routine. Wilson glances at the business section, notes the headline announcing a billionaire's bankruptcy, giving up everything for the sake of his son. Wilson well knows what that means. So he leaves the newspaper by House's pillow, for when he wakes up, and heads out the door.
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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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