Title: We're Kings Over the Parkway Tonight
Author: Shelli
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,183
Prompt: 137. House can't sleep for a week. What does he do? For http://community. Spoilers: Post Son of a Coma Guy
Summary: The noise of a casino is in his ears, and he can't stand the scent of hoagies. (Thud.) His eyes burn because he can't stop his senses from replaying, and when he tries to sleep, all he can think of is a figure at a bus stop and burning anger in brown eyes.
Notes: This takes place sometime after the end of "Son of a Coma Guy" but before "Whac-a-Mole." Let's say a few days. It's short, but so far there are three parts. The second part fulfills the prompt a little better, even if the answer to the question is apparently angst. There's a possibility of there being another part, depending on how I feel after the new episode. XD Right now I'm going to say it's finished though. :D Also, this takes quite a bit from "Son of a Coma Guy," so be on the lookout for references.

We're Kings Over the Parkway Tonight

He wakes up with the echo of a thud in his ears and pretends it's just the thud he made when he ran into his bookcase last night. He rubs the bruise on his good thigh for good measure, to remind himself that thoughts of someone's last day don't need to spin around and around in his mind like Steve in his wheel. He almost believes himself. It's easier when he's got Vicodin in his system so he takes three and counts that as breakfast.

He avoids pointed glances and concerned looks—the former from Cuddy; the latter from Cameron, but maybe the unconcerned demeanor of Foreman and Chase dig at him just as much—once he gets to the hospital. The balcony is too close and the roof is too bright so he camps out in Coma Guy's room. He says it's more convenient. He can watch "General Hospital" in peace. (Thud.)

"Tritter's lurking around the hospital."

"News is only news when it's new information." The sarcasm feels good even though Wilson's presence as he drags a chair over reminds him too much of a hotel room and questions. They could start talking and it might make either of them feel better but there isn't anything to say after yesterday. They listen instead to the beeping rhythm of Coma Guy's monitors.

He wonders whether it'd be better to wake up with an echo of pain if it meant he could get to sleep. His mind burns and his eyes are gritty and his jaw is sore from yawning. He cradles his face in his hands and leans over.

"The hotel needs another deposit."

House chews the rest of Wilson's salad and takes a swig from his energy drink. The circles under his eyes seem to match the ones under Wilson's, two light bruises smudged onto their cheeks. He compares them to battle wounds in his mind and doesn't see the fatigue that lies beyond Wilson's insomnia. His clothes and his voice are rumpled and there are lines along his forehead, but House is chewing Wilson's food and sitting back in his chair and telling reality to screw itself.

"You never gave me back your key."

Wilson is sighing and walking away because that's the closest he'll get to a yes and House isn't thinking about how he (missed) liked Wilson living with him. He drags the fork out of his mouth and takes a deep breath, fills his lungs with the smell of a hotel room. He takes another one and instead focuses on the scent of parmesan peppercorn dressing. (Thud.)

Wilson's eyes are squinting against the light from the television screen as he leans in the kitchen doorway, sweatshirt hanging off him and flannel pants dragging the floor. House let him have the bed because he isn't using it anyway, and maybe, maybe he wanted to wake Wilson up with the sounds of the TV.

"Are you going to bed?"

"Can't sleep."

A sigh and fatigue and House starts to notice the way Wilson hangs heavily in the door. "House, please."

He turns his eyes from the TV and tilts his head, leans over in the scattered darkness, filled intermittently with the flash of the screen. "Read me a bedtime story?"

The roll of the eyes is submission and then Wilson is shuffling across the room, collapsing onto the couch next to him. Conversation is quiet, light. (Thud.) Eventually they move on from the television to cards because they're both masochists in one aspect or another and the cards smell of Atlantic City. Maybe the colors in the room are a little too fuzzy around the edges and blending together by the time they've had a few, dealt a few hands, avoided a few glances. There's something simmering behind Wilson's eyes—glassier than normal but then again so are his and he isn't up to throwing stones—but he doesn't feel like piecing it together. He's having a hard enough time holding his (life) cards in his hand at this point.

There're two empty bottles on the table by this point and they've stopped the pretense of playing. Cards are splayed out on their laps, on the ground, and they're laughing but there isn't much heart in it. They're too tired and there's too much pressing on the both of them. So they lean into each other because somewhere that makes things a little easier. There's a fog settling into their brains and that, that's sort of nice. At least things are clouded and sounds and memories are muffled.

And Wilson is there, beside him. He listens to the sound of Wilson's voice quiet beside him and thinks that it's a constant in the experiment of his life. He thinks of the fact that he's here with him and words like "unconditional" chase themselves in his mind. (Thud.) He thinks about the silence in the night and the heat curling in his chest and the fog swirling in his mind.

He stops thinking when his lips press against Wilson's. It isn't soft or gentle because he isn't soft or gentle. It's about possession, about letting Wilson know that he's claiming him, stamping him to be with him. (Somewhere it's because he needs to have Wilson around, but Wilson's kissing him back before he lets those thoughts register.)

There are no whispered words and no questions, not tonight. There're just their hands on each other, resting against arms and pressing against chests, breath mingling on cheeks, body warmth passing between them. And even when clothes get pulled and lips find other places to kiss and they wind up passed out on the bed, arms tangled and sheets rumpled, the thing that haunts House's dreams is the feel of Wilson's lips. And how they pressed back.

He doesn't feel rested when he wakes up with a thud in his ears that could be a memory or a hangover. It doesn't help that Wilson's side of the bed is empty.

But then he hears a toilet flush and he lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding, feels his blood resume its circulation. Muscles uncoil and he grunts, rolls over, wonders how much he drank last night and how he's still able to remember how Wilson felt against his fingertips.

"House."

"Be quiet," he moans into the pillow. The bed indents beside him.

"House, I… I don't think I should stay here. Look, I can borrow the money from Cuddy or something—" But this time House has his head raised and he levels his eyes with Wilson. His eyes are soft and quiet and House wonders why he looks so helpless when he's the one doing this. "This just… Not now, House. With Tritter and…" But he trails off with a sigh and House only stares and wonders if a Vicodin would stop him from spiraling.

Wilson's lips press against his and he can feel the warmth in it though he tries not to. He shuts his eyes as the slamming door echoes in the house, makes his head throb.

Thud.