|Between The Sheets
Author: cryptictac PM
Wilson is a bedsheet hogger. House/Wilson. Hard R.Rated: Fiction M - English - Humor/Romance - G. House & J. Wilson - Words: 1,750 - Reviews: 17 - Favs: 46 - Follows: 2 - Published: 07-01-09 - Status: Complete - id: 5181701
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Between The Sheets
Sleeping with Wilson was a dumb idea. No, scrap dumb. Fucking stupid. Insane. Crazy enough to be deemed certifiable. I'm sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at Wilson's sleeping, naked - naked - self. In my bed. Naked. Butt naked. I have seen Wilson naked to the point where I now know that his right testicle hangs lower than his left. A detail I'm not supposed to know about my best friend. Amongst other details. Like the noises he makes when he's aroused. Weird, grunting noises. I never took Wilson for a grunter. Or a ball groper. Or the kind of guy who'd sleep with another guy.
Well. Until now, that is. Jesus Christ.
While I'm staring dumbfounded at my best friend like he's some alien from outer space, Wilson turns his head on the pillow with a sleepy snort. Seriously. He's fast asleep. He jacked me off not more than half an hour ago and now he's doing the guy version of Sleeping Beauty in my bed. The drooling guy version, I realise. My mouth kinda stretches in a weird angle as I peer at the thin drizzle of drool creeping out of the corner of Wilson's mouth. He's drooling on my pillow.
No. Okay. Look, I want to snap at him. Make him jolt out of his sleep faster than a projectiling blob of semen. You played Slapping The Salami with me and now you're drooling on my pillow like it's The Done Thing? Not cool. Not kosher. Not normal.
I realise in that same instant that I might as well be the pot that calls Wilson as black as Foreman. I'm naked. Family jewels as exposed as Wilson's. Staring at my best friend. While naked. Mainly because I bolted out of bed the moment it struck me what the hell I'd done. I lick my lips and swallow back a sudden stab of panic. I can still taste Wilson Juice in my mouth. I dart my eyes to the floor for a second, at the scrunched up tissues that contain the evidence of said Juice.
The whole night has passed in a furious, bizarre blur. I almost can't remember who kissed who first anymore. I might've been me. Or possibly Wilson. Or maybe I'm just dreaming an extremely vivid dream and I'm going to wake up any moment now. I even pinch my arm just in case. No dice. Wilson's still naked and drooling in my bed. I'm still equally as naked and trying to pinpoint exactly when in the evening I lost my mind. And it's past one in the morning. I resume staring at Wilson. I stare long and hard, hoping maybe somehow I can make him levitate out of the room all the way back to his apartment across town, butt naked and all.
Instead, Wilson snorts again and rolls over onto his side. Onto my side of the bed. Arm flung out, legs splayed, bedsheets completely hogged. And he's drooling on my side of the mattress. I stand up, almost jump away. I don't like this. I don't like how unfamiliar Wilson suddenly seems. I really don't like him drooling on my side of the bed. I make a few aborted attempts to poke him, jab him, push him until I end up just digging my hands under him and shoving him over to the other side of the bed. And all he does is grunt before sinking straight back to sleep.
"Wilson, get out," I command.
I wait for a response. Silence. Followed by a snore.
So, I say louder, "Wilson." Pause. Silence. I decide an air of melodrama might rouse Wilson into action. "Your hair is on fire."
"Shut up, House," comes Wilson's groggy reply.
I frown. I stare. Wilson's not going anywhere, I realise. I either have to banish myself to the couch for the night or dare myself to share the same sleeping space as Wilson. I ponder all the possibilities. Maybe I could throw a glass of water on him. A bucket of water. A bucket of ice. Maybe I really could set his hair on fire. Or his nipples. Or maybe I could just shove him and shove him until he lands on the floor with a thump.
I swallow. Wilson resumes snoring. I frantically rub my thigh until I decide I am too tired to stay standing like this. I'll sleep first, I decide to myself. Sleep then stage a resistance against Wilson to make sure this never, ever, ever happens again. Ever. Never ever. Ever. I very slowly creep back into bed, keeping a close watch on Wilson the entire time. No sudden moves. No. Sudden. Moves.
Oh, crap. I realise as I lie down that my back is right on the spot Wilson drooled. Not going to move, though. Staying right where I am. I stare up at the ceiling, frozen while listening to Wilson snore. Eventually, somehow, I end up falling asleep.
When I open my eyes again, it's morning. I'm warm and cozy. Still butt naked. Not even a bedsheet. But my hands are warm. Especially my right one. It's wedged between two pillows.
I suddenly scramble back with a start. Those are not two pillows. Wilson's ass is not a pillow. I reach up to something wet on my chin and realise I've been drooling. While pressed up behind Wilson. Snuggling Wilson and drooling on him. What the hell. What the hell. I'm wiping my hand over my chin repeatedly when Wilson rouses and begins to roll to his back. I freeze. He yawns, scrubs his face and then looks across at me and I count to four in my head before his eyes widen with the same abstract terror I've got gripping at my brain. We stare at each other for a while. A long while. Until I finally blurt out, "You snore. And you drool."
Wilson sits up sharply and scoots away from me like I'm some kind of offensive odour, grabbing the bedsheets he'd hogged all night up around his waist. "Do not."
"House," Wilson says in a cautious voice. I see his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallows. "House, we need to t--"
"No, we don't."
Wilson runs a hand through his hair. "You're right. Let's not even go there."
Wilson stares at me again and I stare right back. "What did we--"
"Haven't got a clue," I cut in.
"Last night, we--"
"What the hell did--"
"I don't know."
"You're right," Wilson says as he scrambles off the bed. "We shouldn't talk about this."
I'm thinking I should be relieved at that, except the sight of Wilson hobbling frantically around my bedroom with his hands covering his groin is distracting and something close to horrifying. And maybe a little comical - if it weren't for the fact that it's horrifying. I've never seen anyone dress so fast. Wilson's thrown his clothes on within a matter of a few minutes, hair sticking up in all angles and his clothes more rumpled than the clothes I have stashed at the bottom of my drawer. "I'm going to go now," Wilson says in a bewildered tone when he turns to me.
I just nod. And then he's gone. The front door shutting echoes through my apartment. I sit in silence and I'm waiting to return from the Twilight Zone. Except that never happens. I'm still naked, my bed still smells of Wilson and the evidence of Everything We Did is still lying on my bedroom floor in wadded tissues. I end up kicking those under my bed. I strip the sheets off the bed. I go and have a long, long hot shower. When I'm done, I feel no better and I haven't the faintest fucking clue how the hell I'm ever going to be able to look at Wilson again. Maybe I could sell my apartment and move to the Bahamas. Or maybe I could set fire to his apartment hope that'll make him leave town.
Or maybe I could... Maybe we could...
Never. Ever. Ever. Never.
I think the same thing two weeks later when I wake up with Wilson drooling on my pillow. And again when I spit his semen out of my mouth at his apartment. And again as a fall asleep sprawled almost on top of him after getting the best blow job I've had since I can remember. And again as I wrestle the bed covers from him for what seems like the millionth time six months later in the middle of winter.
About a year later, Wilson asks, "Would you call this a relationship?"
I'm wrestling the sheet from him. Again. "God, no. Why the hell would I want to be in a relationship with you?"
"I was just thinking the same thing."
I elbow him to shove over and turn onto my side. The closest thing Wilson ever gets to a good night kiss. "I'll thump you if you hog the covers tonight."
"I love you, too."
I look over my shoulder at him incredulously. "Shut up."
Wilson rolls his eyes. "Relax, House. Seriously. As if. I'd rather graze my knuckles on a cheese grater than be in a relationship with you."
"Good. 'Cause I don't love you, either," I agree quickly. "Ew."
"Good. Let's keep it that way."
Fine with me, I think to myself. I thump Wilson hard on the arm for good measure, much to his surprise and exasperation, before turning on my side with as much of the bed covers as I can get away with hogging. I roll my eyes at his ongoing dramatics and his whining about the bruise he's going to have on his arm in the morning. And smile to myself when he turns out the light and grumbles a begrudging good night.
Sleeping with Wilson really was the fucking stupidest thing I could've ever done.
No, seriously. Bastard's a serial sheet hogger.