sick_wilson | Fic: Without a Paddle

Characters: House and Wilson
Spoilers: yes, for Out of the Chute; this is Yet Another of Those.
Warnings: none
Rating: PG-13ish; gen/UST
Length: ~700 words.
Summary: Neither of them really knows what they're doing here.

House was alive, for now at least. Shirtless, dressed in a pair of Wilson's sweat pants, stretched out in Wilson's bed because the hotel kicked him out and this is where he'd had the cabbie deposit him. Wilson had damn near called a second cab to take him away, but in the end ... well, there was probably enough Vicodin and God knows what else at House's place for him to finish the job he'd started, OD and get it done with. It was safer for him to be here for the night.

House still smelled of chlorine and alcohol, and Wilson kept thinking another drink for himself might not be a bad idea. That or Ambien, if he wanted to sleep at all. He wasn't House, so he wouldn't combine the two, but he was close enough to being House to have thought of it.

He'd settled on the Ambien and then settled into bed, close enough to feel the warmth coming off House's body. Between that and the pills, he hoped he wouldn't be seeing House's jump all night long.

___________________

"Wilson."

"Yeah."

"Why am I here?"

"Because you're an idiot who jumps off balconies. This is where you landed."

"I thought there was a pool."

"There is." Wilson's propped up on his side, peering into the darkness around them. He can see lights from buildings, but they seem far off. The bed is afloat in water that glows green, lit from below. House's hair is wet, but his skin is dry.

"Okay. But why'd I land here?" House repeats. He grabs hold of Wilson's left hand and presses it flat against the left side of his own chest. "I wasn't supposed to live."

Wilson feels warm skin, coarse hair, the cardiac rhythm bumping his hand. He hasn't ever touched House's chest except to push House out of his face when they were fighting, or administer CPR when there was no pulse to feel.

The instant he thinks it, the pulse stops. "House? House, no! You son of a bitch --"

_____________________

"Hey!"

Wilson came to with a sharp inhalation. "Oh, God."

The bathroom light was on, so the room was bright enough for Wilson to see House staring at him. "I'm pissing you off in my sleep now? Or is 'son of a bitch' our latest term of endearment? I still prefer 'idiot' and 'moron,' myself."

Wilson took another breath, listening to the faint clicking of the bathroom clock. "Just ... go back to sleep."

"You first. Ambien makes your dreams into talkies. Next time, I recommend whiskey, which only causes you to snore like a cute little smush-nosed dog. Gotta admit your nightmares are entertaining, though."

"I'm glad at least one of us is enjoying my misery." Wilson thought about his present state of mind and came to a conclusion he didn't like. He was exhausted in every possible way, but he wouldn't get back to sleep until he knew one thing. Yeah, he'd get mocked, but what else was new.

"I want to check your heart rate," he said.

"Why? You're the one who --"

"Just watched you jump to your death. Yes. But ... humor me. On the very slight chance that there's something my subconscious noticed, aside from the fact that you're a suicidal asshole."

"So you did just dream that I died."

"Make that, 'smug suicidal asshole,' then." Wilson reached over, resisting the urge to place his hand where it had been in the dream, and pressing his fingers over House's carotid instead. "Fast," he noted, and waited a while. The pace slowed, and the rhythm felt right, steady and strong.

"We done cuddling now?" If House intended the question to be cruel, he'd failed. The edge wasn't there, and his pulse jumped when he said it.

"Well, unless you're afraid of the dark," Wilson took his hand away. "Good night. Again." He'd flipped onto his side with his back to House, waiting for it. Waiting ...

... but House was quiet. There was just his slightly uneven breathing and that damn clock, which Wilson kind of wanted to get up and smash.

Eventually, he drifted off, with his hand curled tight like it was trying to hold onto something.

Fic: Without a Paddle

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