Well, everyone, here it is! My first House, M.D. fanfic. Be ye warned - lots and lots and LOTS of cursing in this one, because that's definitely what I do when I'm awake for no reason at some ungodly hour in the morning.
Then again, I never wake up next to one of THESE two, so can you blame me, really?
DISCLAIMER: Let's see...I own a ninja anime straw hat (that's what it said on the register when I bought it), a Time-Turner, pink fuzzy dice hanging over my rear-view mirror, a poster of the Beatles, a dream catcher, and the lovely island of Guam. I do NOT, however, own House, M.D., or any of the characters.
...Anyone care to trade House and Wilson for Guam?
He wasn't excited about the prospect of a new day.
He lay in bed for a while, squeezing his eyes shut, clinging to that one last shred of sleep he might still have in him if he could only try hard enough…
Oh, hell. There it went.
He sighed, relaxing the muscles in his eyelids, and opened one eye just a crack to see if he could spot the time.
Oh, damn. The angry red numbers on his bedside table shouted 3:27 through the still-darkness. Fan-fucking-tastic.
It wasn't even light outside, and his body had already given up the prospect of sleep.
He rubbed his eyes defeatedly, closing them both once more in what he knew was not an attempt at sleep – that, he had already established, would be completely futile – but more so an attempt to ward off the offending darkness of early morning.
He felt a dull, painful throb emanate from somewhere in his body and fought the urge to roll his eyes. Of course. His brain must have ratted out his present state of mind – that is, not sleeping – to the rest of his body, and it felt the need to remind him of its presence. It didn't even matter where the pain was coming from, these days – his leg, his arm, his stomach, his godforsaken big toe. None of it mattered, really.
Especially not at three-fucking-twenty-seven in the morning.
He breathed deeply, exhaling in something like a sigh. It sounded exasperated, even to his own ears, and he idly wondered what he thought he was playing at, wasting perfectly good exasperation on some ungodly hour when there wasn't even anyone around to fall victim to it.
Another dull throb of pain stemmed from somewhere in his body – like he was really going to check where – and he considered putting effort into groping around his bedside table for his little amber bottle, his Vicodin, his happy pills.
Then he decided he didn't care, and eradicated the thought before it had the chance to leave his mind, crumpling it like a piece of paper to kick it into the corner and set it aflame. Now there was a satisfying mental image.
Awake as he was, he could feel his body beginning to get restless. He sternly told it to shut the hell up. He did not want to get out of bed.
And now, it was 3:28. A minute of his life, wasted inside his own head when it could have been otherwise put to use by sleep.
No, no, he was most certainly not excited by the prospect of a new day.
He toyed with the idea of getting up and getting a shower. That, too, was quickly scrapped and tossed into the same corner as the burning little ball of idea. He pictured it catching fire as well, and smiled to himself.
Then he remembered he was smiling – to himself, no less – and stopped.
He briefly considered the option of a beer, but decided that he wasn't in the mood. Which was odd, because he was always in the mood.
Apparently, he was only not in the mood at 3:28 in the morning.
Stupid 3:28 in the morning.
He crumpled that thought as well, tossing it into the now merrily crackling blaze of ideas building in the corner of his mind. Damn. There really was nothing to do at 3:28 in the morning – except, he reminded himself sternly, drinking another round of whatever you'd been drinking at some bar if you'd never actually gone to sleep in the first place.
Which he wouldn't have. But, as he recalled, something had convinced him of the sanity of that suggestion and he had complied.
Hmm.
He pondered tapping his finger against his chin to help him think, then remembered how much movement this would require of him and the thought was tossed even more unceremoniously than the others into the flames in the corner.
What would have made him go to sleep? At a reasonable hour, no less?
Hell, what had even happened last night?
He felt a twinge of annoyance at the thought of 'last night' being a mere four hours ago, but brushed it off robotically, without crumpling it, so that it drifted lazily through the air and landed feather-light on the blazing inferno before bursting into glorious flames itself.
He blinked, getting back to the matter at hand. Remembering what had happened.
His memory had been gnawed at by copious amounts of liquor, of course – but then, that was a normal occurrence as far as he was concerned.
What had happened, what had happened?
He thought back. Let's see…he'd gotten home, his leg had hurt worse than usual after a particularly terrible day at the hospital (Cuddy, after finally losing it, had roughly grabbed him by the collar, manhandled him in and out of the elevator, and actually stood over his shoulder through all of clinic duty, where the only personal satisfaction he'd had was seeing her get sprayed with the projectile vomit that not one but three of his patients had so kindly decided to shower them with), he'd taken more Vicodin than he'd cared to count, and then he'd plopped down on his couch with a beer.
Normal.
So why couldn't he remember what came next?
He strained to recall the details of the night before – he wasn't sure he particularly cared, especially considering that they were mostly going to consist of himself, alone, getting smashed and stumbling into bed earlier than usual, like any normal day – but it was most certainly something to do at…
Oh, fuck. 3:30. In the morning.
Gotdamnmotherfuckingshit. He hated not being able to sleep.
Damn new day. It just had to start off this way, didn't it?
He took a breath, calming down, brushing off his irritation to be kindling to the now-dying fire in the corner of his mind. It would be pointless to be pissed off at stupid 3:30 in the morning. There wasn't even anyone around to notice.
So after he'd landed on his couch, set on drowning his pain, his sorrows, whatever in alcohol and a few packs of peanuts he'd found swimming around in his pantry, he had…switched on the television, naturally.
And then…and then there was a…knock?
He furrowed his brow thoughtfully. Yes, that must have been it. He distinctly remembered getting up off the couch and answering the door, because whoever was on the other side would not stop knocking.
So when he'd answered the door, he'd been pretty much pissed the hell off.
But then…but then he could not remember for the life of him who had been standing on the other side of that door. Which made him even more irritated. The fire burned brighter.
He groaned and shifted, breaking his chain of thought and finally giving into his screaming body's demands for movement to find a new, just as comfortable position without moving his right leg.
Suddenly, he felt a weight on his torso. It was rather unexpected, even to him. He looked down in surprise.
It was an arm.
Which meant that the only logical conclusion was that there was someone in bed next to him. This conclusion was only proven further when something warm and soft and strong slid to rest next to him, touching him, the movement making a small whistling sound on the sheets.
A body.
Maybe…maybe he'd been wrong (rare, sure, but not unheard of). Maybe yesterday hadn't been so normal after all.
He mulled over whether or not to check and see who the body belonged to – and more specifically, if he should be more careful about how much he drank of that weird German beer he'd bought by accident last week – but at the exact moment that the idea was held on to instead of tossed away like the others into the little conflagration in the corner, the person that the body belonged to spoke.
"House?" came the sleepy mumble. "Whass'a matter?"
He froze.
Oh, damn. He knew that voice. Even in the dark, even slurred and jumbled with sleep and probably alcohol, too - even now, he knew who that voice belonged to.
He kept quiet for a minute, but as the figure lifted its head of the pillow next to him to look at him with sleepy concern, he felt he had to take action.
"It's okay, Wilson," he murmured. "Go back to sleep."
The head eased back onto the pillow, and he could feel the slow and even breathing start up again within moments. He sighed, looking down.
The arm was still across his midsection.
He considered the situation for a few moments. At least this had solved the first puzzle – he had a fairly good idea of the events that must have taken place between last night and now if this was what he woke up to at...let's see...
Oh, fuck it all, it was three-fucking-thirty-five!
Damn mornings. Especially early ones.
But if this was what he woke up to, he had to set a few things straight with himself. This must have meant that the alcohol had done away with his inhibitions. Which meant that he must have finally admitted it. Which meant that he'd opened himself up, he'd been vulnerable and honest and not difficult to figure. Which meant…
Wow. Even he was impressed with the way things had turned out.
But he was not fucking happy to be fucking finding this out at three-fucking-forty-in-the-fucking-morning.
Stupid 3:40 in the morning. Stupid new day.
Stupid.
He risked a glance over at his bedmate. He was sleeping peacefully, chest rising and falling…he looked so free. He felt a pang of jealously shoot through him. Damn it, he could be free too if he could just fucking sleep!
He let his head drop back onto the pillow and sighed. Damn. He lay there for a few moments, closing his eyes, watching the flames in the corner of his mind lick the walls and floors of the rest of it…
Suddenly, he realized that he was feeling drowsy. He opened his eye a crack and glanced down at the arm across his waist. It felt…comforting, almost.
He debated looking into that, then decided that he could not pass up the possibility of sleep, and tossed the thought to burn with the others where it belonged.
He closed his eyes again and put out the flames in the corner before they reduced the rest of his mind (which was very nearly unnecessary save for a few trivial things, such as relying on it to keep his job or tie his shoes – if it weren't for those, he'd gladly have enjoyed watching his mind burn away from the inside) to ashes.
And before the angry red numbers on his bedside table even changed to a glowing 3:45, he was asleep.
He wouldn't mind the new day nearly as much when he awoke at a reasonable hour.
There you have it, kids! Seriously, if anyone wants to take me up on that Guam offer...
As always, I'd love reviews...'course, most people out there seem disinclined to give them, but if you don't mind making an exception for ME...
Whatever you've got, darlings. It could be as trivial as 'it was good' or 'oh my gosh, you suck at writing'. Either one. Whatever.
HONESTLY, PEOPLE, I AM ON MY KNEES BEGGING YOU, HERE!
No, really. I mean it.
...Really.