Title: (Baby) If I Tried All Night
Disclaimer: Neither of these gentlemen belongs to me, but they may belong to each other. No copyright infringement is intended, but if Fox would like to take a few notes…
A/N- This is going to be a long one! Please comment if you can, to let me know if you like where the stories going, or if I get any details wrong, which I'm totally going to do. Enjoy .
The phone rings when he is finally sleeping, after what seems like hours and hours spent watching pointless television alone, eating take out and frowning at the television set. It jars him awake, and Wilson spends a few moments in the dark groggily rubbing his eyes and wondering what's up. It's the hotel's phone, not his cell phone, that is ringing, its red light blinking on and off in the dim room, attempting to indicate a sense of urgency that he is just not feeling after 10 straight hours at the hospital, surrounded by dying children and the gloomy thought that he has nothing to come home to.
Did I ask the clerk for a wake up call, he wonders sleepily. But no, the clock loudly announces the time in green neon, three in the morning, no sane person could expect a wakeup call then, and he might not be entirely sane, but compared to his fellows, he has his feet firmly planted. And the clerks at this place are not exactly accommodating either. The hotel charges for any sort of extra phone services, even star sixty-nine, and to be honest Wilson doesn't really care to get up out of his warm, albeit bumpy, bed, and subject his bare feet to whatever germs the room's past residents have left behind. He doesn't care who it is, probably just some confused foreigner trying to reach a member of their absurdly extended family, and after six rings the room is silent again, so he rolls over and forgets all about it.
A few hours later he wakes to the yowling of the alarm clock and has time to wonder vaguely if it was all a dream before the two-year old staying with the family next door begins to scream, shattering his confused peace. Grimly, Wilson wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and decides that he likes children best when they are dying. He spends the next forty minutes trying to banish the thought while he showers, styles his hair, and uses his hair dryer on the loudest setting, trying not to imagine what House would say about his feeble attempts at retribution. 'Oh, the injustice,' he'd howl, and beg Wilson to stop, please stop, with all that horrible hair drying racket.
Actually, the noise of the hair dryer in the morning really did bother his cantankerous friend- Wilson knew very well from his last divorce, when he had slept over at House's for the better part of two months. House had such trouble sleeping as it was, Wilson had finally decided it was unfair to subject him to his noisy morning habits any longer, and had, one evening, abruptly packed his things, called this hotel, and moved out. All things considered, the bed is not much comfier than House's couch, the cable gets terrible reception, and the pillow isn't much for conversation, but at least, he reasons, as he tucks his card key neatly into his wallet, he has his privacy back, and no one is stealing his breakfasts.
This last statement isn't exactly true, either. Traffic is bad on the highway Wilson takes from the hotel, making him think longingly off the short commute from House's home to the hospital. Hell, his old house with Julie had been closer to the hospital than this. After thirty minutes of stomach churning red-light-green-light on the freeways he enters his office to find House already in it, his head firmly entrenched in the lower shelves of his refrigerator, his hands rooting wildly through Wilson's homemade treats. Politely directing his gaze to his best friend's rear, as it is the only part of him visible, and his mother has taught him to always make eye contact, he addresses the older man in a stern voice.
'You there, bum,' he says, smiling inwardly at his own double entendre, 'get your face out of my fridge, do you mind, that's my lunch you're holding!' He scowls as House turns around suddenly, blue Tupperware clasped firmly in one grubby paw, but the frown is insincere, and he can't sell it for long.
'You're later than me,' the other man observes calmly, closing the refrigerator door but making no attempt to return the Tupperware to its shelf, 'is this going to turn into a contest? Because you should know, there's no way you can beat me at this.'
'The late game?' he laughs lightly. 'No, I don't think so. I've already been fired once on account of you.' House raises his eyebrows but says nothing. He isn't guilty, Wilson knows, but he is sorry, he suspects, that it happened. House would happily have taken the punishment himself, he so enjoys suffering. Wilson snorts, and suddenly, there's a cane very close to his face, very quickly.
'What's up,' House asks, withdrawing the cane but eyeing him closely, 'there was a nasty look on your face right then. Thinking about Julie?' he suggests hopefully, his voice rising in amusement.
'I was thinking about you,' Wilson snaps, suddenly feeling tired. The puzzled look on his friend's face gives no clues into his own strange behavior, and at lunch, Wilson eats a cafeteria salad all alone in his office, wondering why his first thought, when the phone had rung was: this is House. He wonders why he thought that, why he didn't rush to the phone, as he normally would, why his pink blush burned warmly into his pillows in the dark.