This is just a little something I wrote up in hopes to get past my writers block for my other fic. R&R, and enjoy:)
They say laughter is the world's greatest medicine.
Like he was supposed to believe that. If that was true, he would have died of this broken hearted illness years ago.
He supposed he had a doctor though. James Wilson was his doctor. Supplying this so called great medicine, curing him.
Because whenever this world's plague struck him, trust Dr. Wilson, with his high morals, was there to cure him.
Because with him he laughed. Not those tiny chuckles, little smirks, or feigned laughs so people didn't look like morons. With him, he truly laughed. He felt the laugh, felt the joy.
Wilson did something to him, made him feel something deep down that he hadn't felt in so long. He couldn't even remember when he felt this feeling.
He supposed you could call it love. A special kind of love though. Not the kind of love where you strip down into a bed together. Not the kind of love where you hold hands while walking upon a sandy beach. A special love. Almost like family. Somewhere deep down, he knew he would die without Wilson. Though he knew he was already dead, the spark that was once held deep down inside of him gone, if Wilson were to ever leave him, whether it was death that would take him, a new wife, or he finally realized House really didn't give him anything, all of him would be gone. That was his biggest fear. That Wilson finally opened his eyes and saw that House was just dragging him down with him, using him. But he wasn't.
He had his special way of showing his affection, and hand shakes and hugs and casual favors were not them. Letting him buy him lunch, sit with him while they eat, letting him sleep on his couch when he had another bad fallout with his wife, occasionally peeking in (without his knowledge) to make sure he's okay, that he's not having a nightmare or falling off the couch. He had his little quirks to make sure Wilson knew he was needed, wanted.
And as he thought about how they sat in House's living room, laughing, eating pizza, drinking beer and watching some movie Wilson brought over, House could have sworn his heart felt lighter, his leg a little better. He could have sworn the treatment was working.
And now, in the darkness of the night, staring at the silhouette of Wilson's sleeping figure on the couch through the doorway, House felt at ease. His fingers, the fingers that usually grasped the edges of his worn out blanket as he lay there in turmoil now lay limp and relaxed at his side. His eyes, that were usually struggling to stay closed as he lay there, the insomniac he was, were now fixated on something with comfort.
He refused to tear his eyes away from the shadow that was Wilson, refused to stare at the ceiling like he did every other night.
After all, ceilings are only stared upon by the lonely.