[fic] House, MD: Comfort
Oct. 7th, 2005 06:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
niqIt started off as comment porn to cheer up ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shrift. It insisted on being finished, and flat refused on ever turning into porn or anything more than a really ambiguous friendship. This is just sad, people. On the upside, I wrote something 1000+ words in length. Marvel with me~!
Comfort
House, MD. PG-13.
"You know, at least half of my nursing staff thinks we're sleeping together."
Wilson and House have been drinking. House really shouldn't, especially given that his tolerance is shit compared to what it used to be, but that's never stopped him before. He has gone through about a third of a bottle of very nice single-malt. Blair Athol, to be specific, brought back as part of his duty-free from a convention over in the land of boring food and royal scandals, if it matters, which it doesn't.
Wilson has had several large tumblers of something terribly girly and mixed, which he claims gets him drunk much faster. It does, actually, but House likes mocking him. But House keeps the girly-drink booze in his liquor cabinet, and the juice in his fridge. The loose, sprawled lines of Wilson's body and the comfortable patina of not-quite-smashed are too appealing not to.
It's not actually surprising when Wilson tilts his head back that extra bit more to look at House and says, contemplatively, "You know, at least half of my nursing staff thinks we're sleeping together," but House wasn't expecting it either.
He shrugs. "They've thought that for years."
"Yes, well, considering that god knows neither of us are getting any anywhere else, it's a wonder we aren't," Wilson says.
House snorts. "Are we going to get another 'my marriage sucks' sob on again, Jimmy? Because I'm really not dressed for it—I left my caring face at the cleaners."
Wilson lets his head fall to the side and snickers into the couch. House can feel the vibration in his ass, which is surprising since his ass is usually numb by now. "No, I think we've pretty well established that my marriage sucks. We could recap, but it'd be boring and you'd go hide in the bathroom. ...what does it say about me that you can successfully hide from me in the bathroom and not Cuddy?"
"That you are the nice one. Or is it cowardly? I always get those two confused."
"Rahr," Wilson says. "Well, you'd be the Tin Man, the man without a heart. Does that make Cuddy the Wicked Witch of the West?"
"Yes, but that would make Cameron Dorothy and it's far more amusing to picture Chase in the blue gingham.”
Wilson snorks on his drink and looks up at House in a glare.
House grins. Chase will get that cute crinkle between his brow tomorrow when he tries to figure out why Wilson is stifling laughter around him all day.
Wilson twists around and says, "Move over." Complete with showily indignant sniff. House blinks down at him.
"Why would I give up space on my very comfortable couch?"
Wilson pokes him in the side. "Because, I told you to."
"And I actually listen to you... since when, exactly?"
“Well, normally you don't, which I might add is really annoying, but 1) I am drunk and 2) I know where all your trigger points are and am not afraid to use them, see number 1."
"...you make a persuasive argument, Tonto," House says, and lets his good leg's calf fall off the couch. Wilson smiles, satisfied, and crawls up onto the couch. He promptly sprawls out, head pillowed on House's good thigh. House rolls his eyes. "And this is why I don't let you sit with me, James."
Wilson laughs and says nothing, because victory speaks for itself, or some other self-satisfied shit. House ignores the fact that he doesn't actually mind Wilson curled up with him and takes another drink
Wilson looks... disturbingly angelic, his already boyish face relaxed. Sleep is clearly threatening to take over. Thank god House is comfortable because it looks like he isn't going anywhere.
Wilson blinks up at him sleepily and mutters something completely unintelligible before... dear god, before actually snuggling into House's thigh. Wilson hasn't been this wasted in a long while.
“Comfy?” House asks, sarcastic.
“Mmph,” Wilson says into his thigh before turning his head. “Well, I was, before you decided to make me attempt higher brain functions like speech.”
“You're awfully articulate for someone that claims to be that drunk,” House points out.
“Oh, you know me, the articulate drunk. I can write love sonnets worthy of Shakespeare while blasted, but try me sober and you get 'roses are red'.”
“Well, that would explain your marriages.”
Wilson rolls his eyes. “I suppose it would. Now, shut up and let me sleep. I have clinic duty at 8:00 in the morning and need at least a few hours sleep to be able to fake being a responsible and competent medical professional.”
“But where's the fun in that?”
“Yes, well, I know the concept of dressing professionally has completely left your wardrobe, but some of us do still have standards. Even Chase is more professional looking than you, which considering what he was wearing today is just sad.”
“Yeah,” House mutters, “but I looked cooler.”
“Oh, definitely. And if this were high school that might actually matter,” Wilson says. “Amazingly, though, it's not.”
House mock-glares. “Keep it up and I'm voting you off the island. But I'm sure you'll greet the floor very professionally.”
Wilson burrows back in without replying which isn't surprising. He has clinic duty in the morning and a bizarre desire to be awake for it. House can't imagine why—he does his level best to be as unaware as possible. Maybe it's that whole caring-oncologist shtick at work.
And, really, he should be annoyed, or at least faking it, but he's drunk enough to really not care, because Wilson is comfortable and he is comfortable, which pretty much means all is as right in the world as it will ever be.
Well. Possibly it will be righter when Wilson actually stops avoiding the issue and divorces Julie already, because Wilson will stop telling House he doesn't want to talk about it and House will stop having to bite back his sarcastic comments. He's really, really bad at that, and it's incredibly annoying to feel compelled to even try.
But... well. The loose lines of a drunk Wilson curled up in his lap, and his bad leg blessedly non-existent. There's really just not much to complain about, here.
shrift. It insisted on being finished, and flat refused on ever turning into porn or anything more than a really ambiguous friendship. This is just sad, people. On the upside, I wrote something 1000+ words in length. Marvel with me~!Comfort
House, MD. PG-13.
"You know, at least half of my nursing staff thinks we're sleeping together."
Wilson and House have been drinking. House really shouldn't, especially given that his tolerance is shit compared to what it used to be, but that's never stopped him before. He has gone through about a third of a bottle of very nice single-malt. Blair Athol, to be specific, brought back as part of his duty-free from a convention over in the land of boring food and royal scandals, if it matters, which it doesn't.
Wilson has had several large tumblers of something terribly girly and mixed, which he claims gets him drunk much faster. It does, actually, but House likes mocking him. But House keeps the girly-drink booze in his liquor cabinet, and the juice in his fridge. The loose, sprawled lines of Wilson's body and the comfortable patina of not-quite-smashed are too appealing not to.
It's not actually surprising when Wilson tilts his head back that extra bit more to look at House and says, contemplatively, "You know, at least half of my nursing staff thinks we're sleeping together," but House wasn't expecting it either.
He shrugs. "They've thought that for years."
"Yes, well, considering that god knows neither of us are getting any anywhere else, it's a wonder we aren't," Wilson says.
House snorts. "Are we going to get another 'my marriage sucks' sob on again, Jimmy? Because I'm really not dressed for it—I left my caring face at the cleaners."
Wilson lets his head fall to the side and snickers into the couch. House can feel the vibration in his ass, which is surprising since his ass is usually numb by now. "No, I think we've pretty well established that my marriage sucks. We could recap, but it'd be boring and you'd go hide in the bathroom. ...what does it say about me that you can successfully hide from me in the bathroom and not Cuddy?"
"That you are the nice one. Or is it cowardly? I always get those two confused."
"Rahr," Wilson says. "Well, you'd be the Tin Man, the man without a heart. Does that make Cuddy the Wicked Witch of the West?"
"Yes, but that would make Cameron Dorothy and it's far more amusing to picture Chase in the blue gingham.”
Wilson snorks on his drink and looks up at House in a glare.
House grins. Chase will get that cute crinkle between his brow tomorrow when he tries to figure out why Wilson is stifling laughter around him all day.
Wilson twists around and says, "Move over." Complete with showily indignant sniff. House blinks down at him.
"Why would I give up space on my very comfortable couch?"
Wilson pokes him in the side. "Because, I told you to."
"And I actually listen to you... since when, exactly?"
“Well, normally you don't, which I might add is really annoying, but 1) I am drunk and 2) I know where all your trigger points are and am not afraid to use them, see number 1."
"...you make a persuasive argument, Tonto," House says, and lets his good leg's calf fall off the couch. Wilson smiles, satisfied, and crawls up onto the couch. He promptly sprawls out, head pillowed on House's good thigh. House rolls his eyes. "And this is why I don't let you sit with me, James."
Wilson laughs and says nothing, because victory speaks for itself, or some other self-satisfied shit. House ignores the fact that he doesn't actually mind Wilson curled up with him and takes another drink
Wilson looks... disturbingly angelic, his already boyish face relaxed. Sleep is clearly threatening to take over. Thank god House is comfortable because it looks like he isn't going anywhere.
Wilson blinks up at him sleepily and mutters something completely unintelligible before... dear god, before actually snuggling into House's thigh. Wilson hasn't been this wasted in a long while.
“Comfy?” House asks, sarcastic.
“Mmph,” Wilson says into his thigh before turning his head. “Well, I was, before you decided to make me attempt higher brain functions like speech.”
“You're awfully articulate for someone that claims to be that drunk,” House points out.
“Oh, you know me, the articulate drunk. I can write love sonnets worthy of Shakespeare while blasted, but try me sober and you get 'roses are red'.”
“Well, that would explain your marriages.”
Wilson rolls his eyes. “I suppose it would. Now, shut up and let me sleep. I have clinic duty at 8:00 in the morning and need at least a few hours sleep to be able to fake being a responsible and competent medical professional.”
“But where's the fun in that?”
“Yes, well, I know the concept of dressing professionally has completely left your wardrobe, but some of us do still have standards. Even Chase is more professional looking than you, which considering what he was wearing today is just sad.”
“Yeah,” House mutters, “but I looked cooler.”
“Oh, definitely. And if this were high school that might actually matter,” Wilson says. “Amazingly, though, it's not.”
House mock-glares. “Keep it up and I'm voting you off the island. But I'm sure you'll greet the floor very professionally.”
Wilson burrows back in without replying which isn't surprising. He has clinic duty in the morning and a bizarre desire to be awake for it. House can't imagine why—he does his level best to be as unaware as possible. Maybe it's that whole caring-oncologist shtick at work.
And, really, he should be annoyed, or at least faking it, but he's drunk enough to really not care, because Wilson is comfortable and he is comfortable, which pretty much means all is as right in the world as it will ever be.
Well. Possibly it will be righter when Wilson actually stops avoiding the issue and divorces Julie already, because Wilson will stop telling House he doesn't want to talk about it and House will stop having to bite back his sarcastic comments. He's really, really bad at that, and it's incredibly annoying to feel compelled to even try.
But... well. The loose lines of a drunk Wilson curled up in his lap, and his bad leg blessedly non-existent. There's really just not much to complain about, here.