This is inspired by a photo manip on the housewilson community.
042. Tears
Watch Over Me
The last time House had cried was when he was in hospital because of the infarction. They had been tears of pain, of frustration, of despair, welling up involuntarily, streaming down his face, soaking into his hair, the pillow, the cool, damp towels Stacy had used to wipe the sweat from his face. He rarely cried before that time or after.
But now…now as he stared down at Wilson lying strangely small and fragile in the hospital bed, he could feel the unwelcome tears threatening. He savagely forced them down, trying to convince himself they were just a result of stress, of thirty-six hours without sleep, of watching as the doctors in the ER rushed around trying to keep his best friend alive, of having to cut Wilson's throat open to insert a trach tube so that he could keep breathing, of standing helplessly in the viewing room above the operating theatre watching as surgeons put Wilson back together again.
Oddly enough there were few bandages visible. Wilson was lying naked in the bed in the ICU, the sheets and blankets lying halfway up his chest, attached to various wires and leads, a nasal cannula supplying oxygen. There was a single stretch of white on his throat where the tube had been and another across his forehead, awkwardly placed, a rushed job in the ER to take care of the lacerations caused by the shattering windshield. That one would be replaced later by something smaller, more appropriate. It had been ignored in the rush, the minor being set aside to concentrate on the major.
The other bandage was hidden. It lay under the sheet and House was happy to have it out of sight. If he couldn't see it, he didn't have to think about it. He could ignore it, ignore how close he'd come to losing Wilson.
That thought smashed part of the way through his best efforts and a single tear escaped his control, sliding down his cheek and getting caught in his ever-present stubble. He ducked his head, staring down at the floor as he fought to keep the rest of the tears at bay.
"House?"
The whisper was so quiet that House almost missed it. He looked up to find Wilson's eyes slitted open, full of a drug-induced haze.
"'Bout time you woke up," House said hoarsely.
Wilson lifted a shaky hand and traced the path of the tear then his fingers brushed House's lips briefly before his hand fell back down onto the bed. House closed his eyes, letting out a shuddering breath that was half relief and half elation.
"Tired," Wilson whispered and House's eyes snapped open again.
"Get some sleep," he said, ignoring the tiny tremor in his voice. "I'll be here."
A minute smile curved Wilson's lips. "Good."