Sunlight was peeping in through the cracks of the Venetian blinds when Wilson's brain began the slow process of awakening. The deep, regular guttural snorts next to him assured him that House was still on the other side of consciousness, though that was a given. He always slept longer. Wilson stretched his arms and legs out, relieving himself of the night's cricks and muscle cramps. The bed dipped in his favor and sprang back to place when he stopped stretching.
He put his hands behind his head, wondered what to do with his Sunday. It was too late for jogging, which he preferred to do while the sun was still rising, but there were other things to be done. There were small chores, like vacuuming and replenishing the kitchen's supply of foodstuffs, that neither he nor House ever had the time for during the week. Or he could relax. He was still fifty-two pages away from finishing "The Autobiography of Henry VIII: With Notes by His Fool, Will Somers," and if he read it now, he could avoid any more of House's jokes about his similarities to the British monarch.
House had turned away from the light source and now faced Wilson. He was frowning, as he often did while asleep, the wrinkles in his forehead set in deep lines. His mouth was open, though if he had been aware of how idiotic he looked he would have promptly shut it. Wilson made a mental note to someday leave the digital camera within arm's reach so that he could shoot a picture of him in this state and use it as taunting ammunition. With House, one needed to stay several steps ahead.
Wilson would have liked to reach out and touch House: his arm beneath the sheets, his throat, his chest. Unfortunately, such attempts had in the past led to an instantly awake and very irate House. He needed his space in bed- Wilson didn't know if this was a natural or learned condition, but House's personal bubble of space was wider when he was asleep than awake. No snuggling, no reaching out, no anything. It was a disappointment to Wilson, who enjoyed physical contact in bed, for it felt more intimate under the covers than it did anywhere else. On the other hand, House didn't expect it of him, and was therefore never annoyed to discover that Wilson had gone off to the hospital at four a.m. for an emergency.
And there were other ways to feel House. There was the way the bed sagged to the other side, how the bedsprings communicated what the other person was doing. There was the eternal tug-of-war with the sheets, with House generally being the victor - come morning Wilson inevitably discovered his feet exposed and House wrapped in the sheets.
Wilson pulled back some of the covers, settled on his side, closed his eyes, and let himself go back to sleep.