41.
41 ; resting foreheads against one another.
greg’s all ‘ fuck this ‘ and ‘ let me at ‘em ‘ when people come up at him without knowing a thing about him. ( when people come up at james, too, for that matter. ) he reminds wilson of danny when it comes to that. like danny, but cooler. casual, big grin, bright eyes, could take on the world if he wanted to. that’s not all he is, though. that’s just what people want him to see. he’s lived next door to house long enough to know there’s more to it than that. he’s been his friend long enough to know he gets scared, too.
maybe it’s something to do with his old man again.
his best friend gets lost in these moments where he doesn’t talk and it’s hard to pull him from himself. he looks small. and it’s that that scares wilson. the world is too small for greg house, it’s not the other way around.
scraps of food remain between them ( wilson gave him more than half of his lunch to make up for the lack of food he knows has to be happening at home ), but it’s when he elbows house gently and his friend leans into him that he rests his forehead against his.
it doesn’t feel weird. it doesn’t feel wrong. it feels … nice.
“better not waste that sandwich,” he whispers, half afraid of jolting them from what feels like peace. “i had to steal the mustard from mom’s stash.”
platonic touch. // accepting. // @needanswers
