He tried to keep as still as possible. Maybe his body would take the hint and shut down more quickly that way. So he clung rigidly to the edges of his pillow as if facing a vast precipice, and waited.
Sure, before, in his moments of weakness, he had questioned the merits of swiping House's bottle of Vicodin. He didn't care if it was painful, as long as it meant he wouldn't have to face any more nights like… nights like this. Of course, he was a coward, and always would be. Every time, he settled for pathetically pleading with a God he didn't believe in, for deliverance, retribution… anything that would help him to believe he wasn't the only one facing this, that he wasn't alone. And every time, whichever puppet master was out there controlling him pulled the strings ever so slightly tauter.
It was no use. It took all of Wilson's strength to haul himself upright, and he grasped blindly in the darkness for his mug of water. House's glasses clattered onto the wooden floor, and he swore under his breath. Ah, well. Better pick them up, or he'd only step on them in the morning (God, how much longer 'til morning released him?). Flicking the bedside lamp on, he reached over to retrieve them. As he tentatively replaced them on top of the book they had been resting on, the bedsprings groaned. He turned, guiltily. House was propped up on one elbow, gazing at him blearily.
"Do you ever sleep?" Wilson grinned ruefully, and lay back. House leaned across and brushed a strand of hair off of his face. The gesture shocked Wilson, and he jerked back involuntarily. House chuckled.
"You need a haircut, too. No amount of blow-drying's going to sort that lot out."
Wilson smiled, and turned to switch off the light.
"'Night."
"'Night, Jimmy."
Soon, the room danced with the sound of deep breathing. And still, he couldn't sleep.