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Normally, the sound of the front door opening and shutting, the shuffle of feet in the hallway, and the creak of the bedroom door would not have woken him, but he hadn't been sleeping well anyway.
He lifted his head and squinted at the doorway, where Wilson's outline stood against a frame of faint light emanating from the hall. House scrunched his face up. The glare was painful.
"Did you just get here?" he demanded before flopping back down again and closing his eyes.
There was a new beat of footsteps, the quiet sound of clothes being removed and hung up, soft shifting of cotton against skin, and then the other side of the bed dipped under Wilson's weight and House felt some of his sheets tugged away from him.
"Affair with a nurse? Or girls' night out with Cuddy?"
"I lost a patient."
House raised his head and squinted again, this time because Wilson was lying flat on his back, staring straight up at the ceiling. Nobody slept like that except corpses.
"You kill patients all the time," House said. "You never stay at work until--" He peered at the clock. "--Four in the morning to make sure they're really dead."
"Okay," Wilson said, "I'm having an affair with a nurse."
A tiny, irrepressibly human part of House abruptly died. "Seriously?"
"No. I lost a patient. And yes, I have stayed at work this late before when a patient was dying. You wouldn't have noticed because I wasn't sleeping in your bed then."
House lay back down on his side and pressed two fingers to the pulse point under his jaw to feel his heart racing. He narrowed his eyes at Wilson. "Were you sleeping in the patient's bed?"
"No," Wilson said tiredly.
House contemplated whether Wilson might be lying and decided that he didn't think so. He wasn't one of Wilson's wives but he didn't see any reason why Wilson would lie about an affair to House when he'd always been so damn forthcoming with his exes.
He closed his eyes and was moments away from regaining unconsciousness when Wilson spoke.
"House."
"Mmf." Immediately after acknowledging he was awake, House realized it had been an error.
Wilson's voice came through the darkness, weary and soft. "I'd been treating her for years. I thought she was going to make it until ..." The bed shifted slightly. "I thought we'd caught it in time, that she had a chance--"
"Tell it to your shrink," House muttered, eyes still shut.
There was a beat of silence, two, three, and then Wilson's side of the bed dipped again as he stood up and calmly left the room.
House rolled onto his back and slung an arm over his eyes. He heard the familiar sound of water running through pipes in the bathroom.
"Wilson!" It was a weary, four a.m. bellow. The neighbors were going to be pissed. "Come here! My leg hurts and I'm not going to chase after you," he finished, letting the last part die off into quiet irritation.
More water running, and then the silhouette appeared in the bedroom doorway a second time, leaning against the frame. House waved an arm in its direction.
"Come here," he said, and then smacked the other side of the bed to demonstrate.
He heard a beleaguered sigh from the silhouette before it walked across the room, gradually taking on the shape of Wilson, who then lay down again in the same funeralesque position, arms at his sides.
"What was her name?"
Wilson was silent; House rolled his eyes.
"Or would you rather sulk for a while?"
"Catherine," Wilson said. "It was breast cancer, spindle cell carcinoma. She was only thirty-six. Three kids, all under ten. Husband died five years ago in a car accident," and House breathed a little easier because there was no way Wilson would have fucked a patient with three little soon-to-be orphans. Too much responsibility; too much guilt.
"Any family?"
"There's a sister from California who flew in last week. I guess she's going to take the kids. Maybe. She didn't seem like the motherly type."
House checked the clock again and thought ... well, it wasn't like he was going to be able to get back to sleeping anytime soon. "You wanna fuck?" he offered.
Even in the dark he could picture Wilson's exhausted, exasperated face. "No, I want to sleep."
"I know a great way to help you get to sleep."
"House. I have to go in to work in a few hours and I'm going to be dragging my feet as it is."
"Could take your mind off it."
"I doubt it," Wilson said morosely.
"Try me," House said, inching closer, reaching out to put his hand on Wilson's hip.
"I don't--" Wilson managed to say before House kissed him, cutting off the rest of the protest. Wilson's jaw was rough, raspy with stubble, but his mouth was soft and pliant when House slipped his tongue inside. He shifted until he was half on top of Wilson and could rub his erection against Wilson's hip.
"This is a bad idea," Wilson added, the words shaking a little as House slid a hand under his shirt.
"Lighten up, Francis," House muttered and scraped the dull edge of his thumbnail over Wilson's nipple.
Wilson shut up then, finally, and let House distract him, touch him, shape the familiar planes and angles of Wilson's body with his hands. He tugged at Wilson's shirt until Wilson lifted up enough for House to pull it over his head, and then he hooked his fingers under the edge of Wilson's shorts and dragged them out of the way, too. He scrambled out of his own clothes and climbed on top of Wilson, lining up their bodies and rocking against him.
"House," Wilson said quietly when House reached down and took both of their cocks in his hand, but it wasn't an objection. He did nothing but pant and groan for the next few minutes until House bit his ear at the same moment as his thumb skated over the slick head of Wilson's cock, and Wilson came with a muffled cry.
House rolled to his side, trying not to crush Wilson while still pressing close to him, and brought himself off with a few strokes of his hand. He bit Wilson's shoulder and managed to get most of the mess on Wilson's body, which would be easier and quicker to clean than the sheets. Wilson would have bitched if there was a wet spot.
House lay on his back, satisfied and suddenly exhausted. Wilson got the honor of reaching for the tissues they kept next to the bed for post-coital clean-ups.
Wilson handed House a tissue and sighed. "Thanks," he said, and then hastily added, "and don't tell me the pleasure was all yours or anything like that."
"Never. I did it all for you, anyway. I'm a paragon of self-sacrifice."
"Self-something," Wilson murmured, and then yawned audibly.
House waited in silence until Wilson's breathing evened out and took on the rhythm of deep slumber, and then he got out of bed, quietly pulled his clothes back on, and crept into the kitchen. Wilson, fortunately, was down for the count and didn't stir. House left the lights off, picked up the phone, and dialed the numbers from memory.
"This is Dr. House," he said, cutting off the night nurse's practiced greeting mid-sentence. "I'm calling for Dr. Wilson."
Nurse whoever-she-was sounded annoyed; she'd obviously been around the hospital for a while. "He's not here now, and don't you have his extension anyway?"
"Not for him. I'm calling to say that he won't be in tomorrow. Reschedule his appointments or whatever it is you secretarial types do."
"Is Dr. Wilson sick?" she asked, ignoring the bait.
"He's tired," House said. "Watching a patient die all night will do that to you."
"He stayed the whole time? But Mrs. Dooley only passed forty minutes ago."
House recognized that awe. It was the tone that usually preceded some kind of declaration of Wilson's sainthood. What a great, caring guy. "Yes," he snapped, "he's a total prince. He's also unconscious, and he's going to stay that way for at least twelve hours. So start directing the cancer kiddies to his people--"
"It's already done."
"Great. And tell Cuddy--"
"Tell her yourself," the night nurse snapped and hung up on him.
House frowned at the dial tone, and then pressed some more familiar buttons.
"Hi," he said cheerily when Cuddy's office voicemail message beeped. "This is Dr. House calling for Dr. Wilson. He won't be able to come in tomorrow. Personal emergency." He paused for a moment and then said, "I'll be in no earlier than noon, but you already knew that. Don't call."
He hung up the phone and went back to bed, shutting off the alarm clock along the way. Wilson was still asleep where House had left him, face slack and peaceful. Nothing like coming your cares away. Maybe if House had patients die on him as often as Wilson did, he'd have broken up two marriages with infidelities, too.
House stole back his share of the covers and closed his eyes.
He'd make Wilson cook them both breakfast later.
--
PLUS: a bonus alternative ending, at the unwitting suggestion of Yvi:
House waited in silence until Wilson's breathing evened out and took on the rhythm of deep slumber, and then he got out of bed, quietly pulled his clothes back on, and crept into the kitchen. Wilson, fortunately, was down for the count and didn't stir. House left the lights off, picked up the phone, and dialed the numbers from memory.
"This is Dr. House," he said, cutting off the night nurse's practiced greeting mid-sentence. "I'm calling for Dr. Wilson."
Nurse whoever-she-was sounded annoyed; she'd obviously been around the hospital for a while. "He's not here now, and don't you have his extension anyway?"
"Not for him. I'm calling to say that he won't be in tomorrow. Reschedule his appointments or whatever it is you secretarial types do."
"Is Dr. Wilson sick?" she asked, ignoring the bait.
"He's tired," House said. "Watching a patient die all night will do that to you."
"What patient?"
He held his breath for moment, allowing a few uncertain seconds to pass while her question hung in the air. "Breast cancer," he said. "First name was Catherine. Mid-thirties. Three kids," and with every qualifier, every identifier that didn't spark a cry of recognition, his grip on the phone tightened.
"No," the night nurse said, sounding distracted -- like she was looking through records. "We don't have anyone here matching that description. And nobody passed away tonight. I've been here for hours; I would know."
"Right," House said brightly. "My bad."
There was a long, heavy silence.
"Is that it?" the nurse asked. "Should I reschedule Dr. Wilson's appointments?"
His hand ached where it was clenched around the receiver. "Yes. He's taking a personal day."
He remained standing in the kitchen for several minutes after hanging up, staring blankly at the floor. Then he walked back to the bedroom. He stopped in the doorway as Wilson had earlier and leaned against the frame. Wilson was still asleep where House had left him, face slack and peaceful, and he forced himself not to turn away, forced himself to look and not to give in to the brittle, suffocating pain.
He wondered what Wilson's plan was: when he was going to confess, whether he was waiting for House to ask. To do the honors of cutting him loose.
Fat chance. Wilson wasn't getting any walking papers this time.
He wanted to be angry, to let the rush of fury distract him, but the rage center of his brain seemed to be on the fritz. Besides, it wasn't like Wilson had broken any vows this time. They'd never made those kinds of promises to each other; House wasn't stupid enough to trust either of them. He'd known the score going in.
He knew the price now.
He walked unevenly from the doorway back to the bed, where he lay down silently and closed his eyes, trying not to recoil from the warm body next to him. He'd get over it. What other choice was there?
He'd make Wilson cook them both breakfast later.