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The first night Wilson falls asleep on the couch-- "At least when I'm sitting on it I don't have to look at it." "Oh, admit it, you love it!"-- House stops his mouth with a spare tennis ball, and then photoshops a Golden retriever's floppy ears onto Wilson's head before emailing this fresh evidence of his genius to the entire Oncology department.
The second time, House pauses in the doorway. Wilson's shivering, arms folded across his chest, with a frown on his face. He should get his damn self to bed. House picks up the remote and blasts the television as loud as it will go for the pure pleasure of watching Wilson's body jerk like a puppet when his master yanks the strings.
The third time, House turns off the overhead light, so that it's just the lamp burnishing the worry lines and shadows under Wilson's eyes. House picks fussily at the afghan until it covers Wilson's shoulders. It's stupid to get used to this. House is an expert at breaking, not holding on. The only real kindness is to walk away. They'd better both get used to falling apart. That night, House sleeps in their bed alone.