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Falling into Patterns

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House woke up alone. That was normal. That was everyday. But it wasn't tonight: he hadn't fallen asleep alone.

He didn't have any experience in the matter, but Wilson didn't seem like the type to up and leave in the middle of the night without a word. House weighed how tactless it would be to call the ex-wives and ask.

When he slid his hand over, the sheets were still warm beneath his palm; when he heard the faucet running in the bathroom, he knew for certain that Wilson hadn't gone far.

Self-directed anger chased relief out of his mind.


Wilson paused as he crawled back into bed and leaned over him in the darkness, brow furrowing. "Did I wake you?" There was concern in his voice. House rolled his eyes and pushed him away, back to his own side of the bed. For his own part, House rolled over to face away from Wilson, pulling more than a fair share of the covers with him.

He didn't shift back until Wilson's breath was slow and steady. His fingers inched closer, stopping just short of contact. Heat radiated from Wilson and it was nearly as good as touching him.


The smell of coffee and the sound of eggs frying woke House. He could get used to this.

Later, in the kitchen, Wilson sputtered a protest when House grabbed his plate from him. A minute after, he joined House on the couch with a cup of coffee for each of them.

"I'm bored."

"No big surprise there. Saturday morning cartoons are aimed at the three to six demographic."

"Entertain me."

"I made you breakfast. It's your move."

"You're my guest, entertain me."

Wilson sighed and stood, taking the plate and cups with him. "Usually, it works the other way around."


House watched from the doorway as Wilson washed the dishes.

Wilson didn't turn around when he said, "A little help would be nice." House moved closer, then, and closer still. Wilson shivered beneath him when he pressed his lips to his neck. "That's not helping," he whispered.

"Dishes can wait."


His arms wrapped around Wilson's waist to pull the other man flush against his chest. "This isn't the slightest bit entertaining."

Wilson turned in House's grasp. He didn't dry his hands off before reaching for the hem of House's t-shirt; they felt soapy-slippery against House's belly. "Better?"


"Where are you going?"

Wilson pushed himself up from the bed for the second time that morning. "Shower."

House frowned. "Me first."

"It's always about you, isn't it?"

House contemplated this as he moved to stand, unbalanced -- his cane was still in the kitchen. He'd stumbled into the bedroom with Wilson's help. "You could join me." Wilson treated him to a half-smile. "See? I think about you."

Wilson's arm slipped around his waist, steadying him. "You're still thinking of yourself." House opened his mouth to object, but Wilson continued, "Though, I think I can forgive it this once."