Morning and Night
Wilson untangled himself from House at the sound of the alarm.
"House, time for work, get up." He punctuated his words with a forceful pat to House's stomach.
"Ge'off." House rolled onto his front, curling the pillow around his face, mumbling something unintelligible.
Wilson looked on through foggy eyes. House was always a pain in the ass when it came to mornings, but since Wilson started making it his duty to get him up on time, House was never late for work, Cuddy was one percent happier and Wilson…well he was still relishing the warm buzz he felt waking up next to House every morning. Though he knew that eventually the novelty might wear off, at the moment he was savouring it. The trouble was, everyday he had to think of a new way to get House up or he'd simply put on his stubborn hat, say you've already tried that and pretend not to be fazed.
Wilson's mouth drew upwards into a mischievous grin as he yanked the pillow from House's grip, sending his face into the mattress with a thud.
Then, without a word, Wilson shoved the pillow under his arm and trundled off into the bathroom. Turning on the shower, he shouted, "You can either lay there all morning…or…you can join me."
He rolled his eyes, grinning at the sound of House's cane hitting the hardwood floor.
Wilson was somewhat anxious.
"Don't be late home tonight," House had said, bursting into his office. Wilson barely had time to look up before House made a swift exit, slamming the door in his usual fashion.
Was he angry? Is he toying with me? Was he being serious? Is something wrong? The mystery of it was deeply unnerving.
Then, once more, in the cafeteria everything seemed normal; they exchanged witty banter across the table as House made a grab for Wilson's fries. Moments later, House's pager went off and he stood.
"Gotta go, sick people to interrogate," he said and Wilson waved him off, eyes still down on his newspaper. "Don't forget about tonight." And House was gone again before Wilson's eyes had time to flick up from the page.
And there was that anxiety again. Oh, how I've missed you old friend.
It wasn't the, Oh God; I've got a presentation tomorrow kind of anxiety. Hell, it wasn't even the, Gregory House is up to something kind of anxiety. This anxiety was down to the niggling little fact that he simply didn't know what he'd be going home to.
He'd call it 'excitement,' but that would imply that whatever-it-was-he-wasn't-allowed-to-be-late-for was going to be something pleasant and enjoyable – and, quite frankly, Wilson wasn't sure it would be.
Later that day, just as the feeling had ebbed, Wilson was finishing off some paperwork when his phone vibrated wildly in his pants pocket. He immediately knew who it was – House had made him change the setting to rapid vibrate whenever he called or texted. Wilson was sceptical at first, but soon learned, or rather felt its benefits.
He flipped the phone open.
Text message received 16:51 – House
You'd better be on your way home ~H.
Again, Wilson was frustrated. House's messages were always abrupt, so there was no telling his tone at all.
Quickly, Wilson gathered all the papers on his desk, shoving them messily into his bag and took off towards the exit.
He must've taken a cab, Wilson thought, noticing House's car was still there.
He threw his bag in the trunk, got in, revved the engine and shot out of the parking lot.
Wilson loved routine – routine meant everything was planned out and surprises were kept to a minimum. As was unnecessary panic. Now, however, the car had an air of nervousness to it and Wilson needed to bite it back if he was going to get home in one piece.
He pressed play on the CD player, ready for a bit of Bowie to calm his jangled nerves.
"Friday night and the lights are low…"
"Looking back on a place to go."
"House," he muttered, thumb repeatedly tapping the steering wheel. Somebody had changed the CD.
Pulling up to House's apartment – Mamma Mia blaring shamelessly from the car – he shut off the engine and looked to House's apartment window for any signs of life. All he could see was dim light.
The front door was locked. Wilson furrowed his brow. After rooting around for his key, he hesitantly scratched it into the lock until it clicked.
"House," he called out. No answer. "House! Are you home?" He took off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. "House?" he said, venturing into the bedroom.
"G'hod, H-House…w-w-what are you…" He subconsciously ran his tongue over his lips, gaze fixed on the way House's feet rested at an angle on the headboard. Lying on his back, sprawled with his head at the foot of the bed, House's almost bare body was deliciously exposed. Tilting his chin to the ceiling, he stared into the eyes of an upside-down Wilson.
"You're...three minutes late. I almost took them off," he said teasingly, clicking his heels together. His eyes dared Wilson to join him. Suffice to say, Wilson did.
As Cuddy got home that night, she knew something wasn't right, but it wasn't until she awoke with a start at 2am that it hit her. She was missing her Jimmy Choos.
A/N: Obviously, disregard foot size...Cuddy might have huge feet for all I know. Also, I have a weird obsession with House, Wilson and high heels atm. Hence the shoe!fics. Oh dear. I'll get over it.