House awoke that morning with a pain shooting up and down his leg. It wasn't new, it wasn't unexpected, it was just there, like always, ready and willing to greet him in the morning whether he liked it or not. This morning though, he was the owner of a horrible hangover to make things that much worse. As per usual he attempted to roll to his side to grab the Vicodin off the side table, this morning though, something was preventing him from doing so. He did not attempt to roll to his other side to see what it was; he only knew that the bed sheets had caught on something, or more likely, under someone.
He'd been way to drunk last night to remember exactly what happened. He might have made a few calls to secure that a hooker was on her way over, or he may have picked up an equally intoxicated woman at the bar. Both considerations were hardly anything to look forward too. If it were indeed a hooker sharing the bed with him, he'd have to shell out at least a hundred dollars for a night he'd never remember. And if it was a woman nursing a hangover such as him, she would either be infuriated that he took such advantage, or she would be in cuddle mode with her new found love interest. Neither prospect pleased him.
After a ten minute debate with himself, House decided it was best to get it over with now, so he could boot whomever it was out, and would be able to get at least another couple hours of sleep before he had to be at work. He altered his position on the bed and squinted hard to see if he could make out the person lying next to him. The unknown figure had dark hair, and was tall, maybe even as tall as him, if not only a few inches shorter. House rested his head on his arm in frustration. He wasn't going to let this woman lay there all morning, she had to leave now. He nudged her shoulder a bit, nothing. He drove a finger softly into her back, nothing. Not until he started to poke and prod a little harder, did the figure turn over.
It was at that moment that House, for the first time in ages, didn't know what to say, or do, for that matter. It was no hooker, no half -drunken woman, it was no woman at all. The mysterious person was, note, a very naked James Wilson. How the hell had this happened? He was now regretting taking Wilson to that bar. He was regretting drinking so much, suggesting to Wilson that they could share a cab, and most off, he was regretting allowing Wilson to spend the night. It was all an immense blur, but he was sure that's how they got to be where they were. House didn't regret their actions for his own sake. Fuck, he would have done this a long time ago if Wilson had shown any true indication of being interested, but as far as House could tell, he hadn't. He regretted it because of Wilson. If only there was someway to tell if they had in fact…done it. As far as pain, or any other feeling down there was concerned, he didn't feel any. His brain was to busy trying to fight the constant pain from his leg.
House recalled a young man coming into the clinic not so long ago, claiming to have extensive 'backside' pain when he sat down. It wasn't a very pleasant thing to think about, considering House had to thoroughly check out the man. He was recalling this memory of course, because he had to check for himself. He had to know if anything went on between them besides drunkenly falling asleep naked with each other. Which, for Wilson's sake, he'd hoped was all that happened.
House quietly slid out from under the blankets and grabbed his cane while Wilson mumbled something in his sleep. Although he knew Wilson was in the most rooted sleep anyone could ever possibly be in, he was still a tad embarrassed as he walked out of the room naked. The bathroom was the most logical place to do such a 'test', so he slowly walked in and locked the door behind him. He silently did his thing before coming to the conclusion. He'd never in a million years dreamed that he'd be locked in his own bathroom performing his own anal exam, but he had to laugh at this. Wilson…had fucked him, and he was relatively sure he had returned the favor.
He finished up in the bathroom and decided to throw on some clothes, take a Vicodin, the couch, and let Wilson sleep off whatever he'd consumed the night before. The hard wood creaked so damn loudly that House made a face to himself as he walked across the bedroom floor. He was gathering a pair of pajama pants out of a drawer when he heard a rustle of sheets, and then a quiet but analytical, "what the hell?"