A/N: Another day, another chapter, enjoy it.
He didn't even remember passing out, only waking up on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table in between beer bottles, head tossed back over the arm of the couch. House was there too, still snoring softly. He checked the clock to find it was still early. He sighed when he looked at the remnants of the night before, and the revelations that it had brought.
He didn't particularly want to move, but figured it was wise to do so. Fifteen minutes, and a much cleaner coffee table later, Wilson allowed himself to sit back down. He didn't have to clean House's place, but he felt better knowing that garbage that he had a part in putting there was gone. He reached for the remote, before opting against it, not wanting to wake his sleeping friend. Then again, he rationed, if House hadn't woken up from the sounds of beer cans clattering against one another, he doubted the TV would wake him.
Still, the remote was placed once again on the table. Wilson sighed, looking across the couch, not knowing what to do with a morning off, and a hangover to nurse. He hadn't even realized he'd been staring until a good five minutes had past. But he had been, eyes tracing the sinewy lines of a taught body, tense even in sleep.
And if nothing else, House was every bit as ungraceful asleep as he was awake. Mouth hanging open, slightly sneering, faintly snoring. And with every noisy breath, Wilson was torn between smiling and feeling bad-after all, he had been the one to accidentally catch his friend square in the nose in a game of basketball. And he had known it was his fault, because the morning after the incident, Stacy had complained that House had started snoring. He always felt as though that was just one more thing that proved that House and Stacy simply weren't to be.
He pushed the thoughts of Stacy out of his head and went back to staring-or rather, observing. House's head was tilted to one side, in a way that looked rather painful. The bad leg was propped up on the coffee table, the good one tucked underneath him. All in all, House looked like a strong breeze would send him toppling over, if it wasn't for the way his arm gripped the back of the couch.
Which was a good thing, he supposed, as the only place to topple was into Wilson's lap. And after the things that had come out last night, he supposed that was for the better. It wasn't as though he was suddenly insecure-he figured that in two decades of friendship if there had never been a pass made on him that there wasn't like to be one, but rather doubt. Doubting what he would do if there had been a pass made on him. Wondering if he'd ignored any of the signs simply because they weren't coming from a typical source. The typical source being something about 5'4", with mousey colored hair, a cute smile, and a perfect rack. Not very large, he'd never been one for Pamela Anderson wanna-bes, but something that he could enjoy.
And House was not at all like any of the typical types. All three wives had been similar. Amber had been a titch different, but not much. Slightly homely, and definitely someone that he knew he could "do better" than. He never really wondered why but if he was forced to go back to his days of psych, he'd put it down to the fact that women who were constantly afraid of losing their man tried harder in a relationship. They knew that the second something better came along that he was gone-he never had to say it, but he knew they all knew it. And that the tears and the sobbing weren't over the fact that he cheated, but rather because they knew it would happen, and they kept telling themselves that no, he wouldn't cheat on them.
House was tall, lanky, and while grey was still technically a common color for a mouse, it didn't match the others. Piercing blue eyes, rather than soft dark ones. And certainly nothing up top for him to ogle. Although there was Cuddy if a man ever realized he was lacking something to ogle over. Not that he'd ever admit it or do it nearly as brazenly as House did, but there were times he found himself talking to the chest of his boss rather than her face.
He had never once dated someone taller than him-not that he was uncomfortable with his height, even though he knew he clocked in at the shorter end of the spectrum, but he had never liked the idea of having to crane his neck for a kiss. And then he realized where the train of thought was heading, and promptly attempted to derail it. Dating. He had used the word date in vague relation to the word House. And he had contemplated what it would be like to kiss someone who had a good few inches on him.
Right now, he needed a drink. And a very stiff one. Even if it was only ten in the morning. There was a slight sound as he leaned his head back against the couch, somewhere between a moan and a whimper. No, not a drink, a drink at ten in the morning was something that could only be summed up as Not a Good Sign. After all, he, unlike other people on the couch with him at the moment, actually cared about his liver.
But then again, he had just used the word date in relation to a man he'd never thought would ever enter into thoughts like that. Largely because of the fact that the man in question was, well, a man. It was as though the Loch Ness monster had reared up in a forgotten part of his brain. It was very big, very different, and very scary. And something no one would believe him saying.
Yes, that's what this was. This was the Loch Ness monster of a relationship. No one quite knew what it was, and while he wanted to study it more in depth, he was also very afraid of what studying it would prove. He was afraid to look deeper into the relationship, because somewhere, in the back of his mind, he knew that the results wouldn't be what logical thought would have hoped they would be. But logical thought isn't always logical.
House awoke to this conundrum, mostly because of the incessant rapping of fingertips against leather. "Would you stop that?" He groaned, attempting to roll back over and fall asleep before realizing there was nowhere to roll to, as he was sitting upright. He had also almost stayed unconscious enough that his leg didn't bother him. Of course, now that he had been awakened, he was sure his leg was going to continue to hurt until he did something about it.
And that something was two Vicodin, without the need to wash them down with anything. He ignored the mumbled apology, and set about figuring out where he was. In his house, on his couch, that much was obvious. Now, as to why he was there. It was something of a morning routine whenever his morning was anything but ordinary. He looked around, and found no evidence of drinking, he still had most of a bottle of pills, so what had led him to sleep on the couch that night? And then the sound of nervous drumming picked up again.
He sighed, almost inaudibly, and put his head back, in the crook of where couch met arm. He had admitted the one thing that no one beyond his mother, and the various and sundry people who's beds he had wound up in knew. And his mother only knew because she happened to stumble in on a morning after one of those nights. Otherwise she'd be another one kept in the dark about the secret, sordid life of doctors behind closed doors.
It wasn't that he was ashamed of it, simply that he found it an inconvenience. Unless a man was incredibly blatant about their sexuality, in a pink tube top and overly-large rainbow accessories sort of way, other men assumed they were straight. When it was found out that their common assumptions had changed, every other man in the vicinity started to wonder if there had, in fact, been flirting going on. And judging from the look on Wilson's face at the moment, that was the very thought process that was going on. "Stop that." He repeated, the repetitive drumming starting to get on his nerves.
"House-" The tone of voice told him everything he didn't want to hear. He tilted his head, opening his eyes, and found them meeting brown ones.
"We need to talk." They didn't know what was scarier, that they knew that the talk was coming, or that they had both said it in the same few seconds.