It's five in the morning, and by all rights, I should be asleep. He is, at least I think he is. And there's a moment where I think he's going to stay this time. Where I hope that he won't because that would change things, make me admit things that I don't want to. But at the same time, where I need him to, because I need to know what this is to him, I need to know that he values me. I'm sick of being Wilson-the-Doormat, but I'm sick to death at the thought of pushing him away.
And all I've done is toss and turn, and not be able to sleep. For fear that the moment I fall asleep, that will be the moment he leaves. But he hasn't left yet, and it's getting close to when I figured he would. I was always at the hospital by nine, and always up at seven. And I figured he made sure to give my wakeup time a wide berth, not wanting to risk my getting up a half hour early.
I finally find a comfortable spot, but my mind won't rest. It's enough to let my body have comfort though. And I slow my breathing slightly. If I can't get to sleep I can hope that I'm physically well rested enough to survive the day.
And that's when I feel him stir. I wonder how long he's been awake, waiting for me to fall asleep. It takes him a moment before he gets out of bed, carefully removing the arm around his chest that I had put there in a futile attempt at getting him to stay.
My eyes snap shut when he sits up, a moment of cowardice, because I don't want him to know I'm awake. I'm not ready to push him away, not yet. I haven't had enough of the pain yet for me to have to do something. I'm not like he is, ready to fake brain cancer to get something for the pain. I can still keep going, with nights like last one being my vicodin, my addiction.
Eventually it'll get to the point of being unbearable, but it's not, not yet. Right now it's just a deep, throbbing ache that can be drowned out if I really try.
I feel his presence a the foot of the bed, and then next to me, and I hope he thinks I'm asleep. I hear him shift, and suddenly feel his hot breath next to my ear. Soft lips press to mine, gentle and kind. "Goodbye." He whispers, and it sounds almost sad. "See you later." My eyes flutter open, but his back is to me, and he's struggling into his pants from last night.
"House-" I call, and he freezes, and even from behind, I know he looks like a deer in the headlights.
"Good morning." I can tell he's straining to sound calm and collected as he does up his belt.
I can't break my stare from the floor, I can't bear to look up at him, and see the rejection I know is coming, but I speak anyway. This is it, the breaking point. "House-I'm sick of this. This isn't working" The air is thick for a moment, and I feel as though I'm going to be sick. This was a part of the relationship that I knew had to come, and I'd accepted it. A painful, horrible part, but one that I accepted anyway. They all eventually ended.
The only thing I can see is a white-knuckled grip on the back of the chair at the desk. And a slightly trembling hand. "I'm sick of waking up alone every morning, I'm sick of shitty hotel rooms, and avoiding each other all day. I'm sick of trying to remember which Wilson I'm supposed to be, the one that shows up with pizza and beer, and lets you steal chips, or the one that's here, whimpeing and begging for more. I'm sick of what we have House. I want-I need something. I need for this to end, or I need more, but what we have, it's not working."
There's a long pause, and I'm afraid to look up. I'm afraid I'm going to see anger, rejection, pity. I'm scared that this was it, and this was the last time I'd talk to him beyond the forced interaction simply from working in the same place. Perhaps I'd find somewhere else to go-I had options, and had only come back because he drew me back. I could leave, and I knew that I'd have to. It's only after a minute that seems like an eternity that I try to break my eyes from the carpet.
They stop at about elbow-height. He's still shirtless, but he's pale, as though all the color's drained from him. This was not good. I get up, and reach for my shorts. I'm going to be sick, and I know I will, but I can keep my composure until he leaves, because I don't want him to see just how desperately needy I am for him. I don't want him to see the effect he's had on me. I don't want him to feel guilty, because this is all on me. I was the one who decided that good wasn't enough, and I was being selfish.
"Wilson-" I'm trying to figure out what that is in his voice. It's not quite anger, but I don't know what it is. Sadness perhaps? Pity? "What you want-" This is it, and I brace myself for what's going to come. I know it's not going to be anything good, and I want to cut him off now, and tell him that I'd be leaving, and that I'm sorry, sorry that it was ending like this. "I'm no good at it."
I feel him close the distance between us, and there's a hand on my cheek. I pull away, I'd rather have memories of last night as our last touch. Put he persists, follows the jerk of my head. "Don't." I whisper. "I don't want this to be the last-"
There's a hoarse chuckle, and the sound of it surprises me, enough to get me to look up. I can't read the expression on his face, but it's one I've never seen before. I've seen the look in his eyes before, when he's talking to his mother, but the face is still taught with tension, and still the color is slow to return.
"What do you want?" It's a simple question, but it's hard to think of how to respond.
"You." It's whispered, barely spoken, but I know he hears it.
"Thank god, I was hoping you were expecting chocolates and mushy valentines." The hand is still against my cheek, betraying the sarcastic words. I look at it, rather than at him when he speaks. "But me, I think I can handle that."
"Not just you, all of you. I want to wake up with you, I want to be able to kiss you over cheesy movies, and know that you're not going to pull away and tell me to do this some other time. I want you to stay. Here. Now."
His thumb brushes across my cheekbone, and it smears a wet feeling across it. I hadn't even realized i'd started crying. I just merely shut my eyes, knowing that this is it, this is the end. But there's those warm, soft lips again, gentle, kind, loving. I open my eyes to see him looking at me, with that same look as before, and I wonder what it is.
"I'm not good at this." He repeats, and I'm feeling confused, and lost and helpless. "I don't even know where to start with this. I don't know where we go to next, I don't know what more is," There's a pause, and I open my mouth to tell him, but he speaks again before I can. "But it doesn't mean I'm not willing to try and give it to you."
It's my turn to have the deer in the headlights look, and I meet his gaze, and don't see the usual coldness, the usual detachedness that he always has. And I know that he means it. The only thing I can think to do is kiss him, and he responds. This is just another part of the relationship, an accepted one. A painful, horrible one, but I know there will be more. More moments of confusion, of feeling lost, of not knowing what he wants, of not knowing what I want, but for the moment what I want is clear. "Stay." I whisper, not quite trusting my voice. And he does.