House MD Fanfiction

We're Getting Good At This

Hilson, nice, 1,094 words
By: ad astra dean (bitterescape)

Wilson had a migraine. The debilitating kind, where everything ached and the slightest sensation was too much. He was on the couch in his office, the curtains closed haphazardly and the door locked. His nurses had been warned that he was not coming out until he could stand without feeling the need to projectile vomit across the oncology ward.

He got these migraines every so often, usually as a cruel reminder from the powers that be that he was working too hard. It had been a busy month — he had the files of three terminal patients on his desk, and a favorite of his, a little girl with stage IV neuroblastoma, had passed away just that morning. He’d promised her that she would get to go home in time for her birthday, but an infection had claimed her faster than anyone could have guessed.

His office phone was on the floor at the far end of the couch, where he’d moved it in case of an emergency. He reached for it now, stretching his fingers to grasp the receiver and leaning down to dial House’s office extension. He listened to it ring through the wall, holding his throbbing head with his other hand. His forehead was sweating, and he moved to loosen his tie where it sat tangled, too tight, around his neck.

“Pinky’s Porno Palace,” House boomed, sounding chipper. “What’s your pleasure?”

Wilson hissed into the phone and turned his head to curl into the couch. The fabric was cool against his too-warm face. “Not so loud,” he said, sounding more ragged than he intended. Constellations were bouncing around his field of vision now, distracting him from whatever House was trying to say. “What was that?”

“I said, I’m in the middle of a differential, this better be good.” He heard Taub coughing in the background.

“Am I on speaker?”

“Nah, you’re good. What’s up with your voice? Told too many kids they were dying?”

Wilson ignored the comment. “Migraine. Can you come over here?”

House scoffed. “I thought you were a doctor. Or was the whole med school thing just an elaborate ruse?”

“I already took some acetaminophen,” he murmured, pushing his hair off of his face. “Head. Hurts. Please.”

House paused for a moment before folding his hand over the speaker and addressing his team. “Do an MRI and look for a brain tumor. Don’t page me if you find anything.” Wilson heard rustling of papers as they swiftly exited the room.

“I’m on my way,” House said after he was sure they were gone, sliding open the door to their shared balcony and grunting as he hopped the low railing.

Wilson let out a laugh. “My knight in shining armor,” he crooned sarcastically, tossing the phone in the general direction of its base (and missing entirely).

A few seconds later, House rapped his cane on the glass, igniting a sharp pain just behind Wilson’s ear. “It’s open,” he half yelled, pushing his face as far into the couch as it would go. The pain was manageable here, in his couch corner.

This small moment of relative solitude was interrupted by House telling him to move so he could sit, favoring his bad leg more than usual. Bad pain day, Wilson noted.Maybe he needs more Vicodin. He scooted his feet to the end of the couch, gesturing for House to sit at the end where his head had been. As soon as he had settled in, Wilson let his head fall into House’s lap, wiggling until he was somewhat comfortable.

“How many pills did you take? And when?” House’s voice was surprisingly quiet, deep and uncharacteristically soothing. He carded his fingers through Wilson’s hair with calloused fingers, stopping to rub his temples when Wilson whimpered in pain.

“Three. About...two hours ago, now.”

“And it’s still this bad?” Wilson looked up into House’s eyes, which showed a hint of concern.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, reaching for House’s other hand and holding it between his own. House had such large hands — so strong and flexible compared to his. “You know I get migraines sometimes.”

House nodded, staring up at the ceiling. He reached into his pocket for his Vicodin bottle and flipped open the cap with one thumb, offering one to Wilson, who gave him a weak smile and took the pill, swallowing it down dry.

Neither of them knew exactly what this was. It had started one afternoon almost a year earlier, when House had found Wilson huddled under his desk with a monster of a headache and coaxed him out with soft, reassuring touches. Which had led to more touches. And kissing. They were now in some sort of semi-functional relationship, shifting from their previous platonic partnership to something, well...not platonic. No one knew except Cuddy, for official hospital reasons, and Thirteen, who had been sworn to secrecy when she’d caught them kissing in the elevator.

It was the best he’d felt about any relationship in a long, long time, since before the wives, back when he was in undergrad and everything was effortless. They were living in House’s apartment, taking turns making breakfast and doing the dishes. It was oddly perfect for two people so screwed up, though that had always been their M.O.

Wilson felt House’s hands in his hair again, threading through his loose waves, always gentle, always subdued. It was a sharp contrast to the House that existed outside of this office, outside of his apartment. A House that rarely showed itself except in times of pain or distress. House’s left hand dropped to Wilson’s half-removed tie and worked at the knot, pulling it from around his neck when it was loose. It fell to the floor and rested with the dress shoes Wilson had kicked off earlier. The hand pushed its way under his shirt and rested there, cool and present.

They sat in silence for a while, Wilson’s pain starting to ebb as the Vicodin kicked in. Everything was all rounded edges and haziness, muffled hospital noises in the peripheral of their shared bubble. Things were good here.

House’s pager went off; he ignored it.

“Thanks,” Wilson said, not sure if his voice would carry. He was drifting into sleep, a feat he had been attempting for hours but rejected now in the face of this off-kilter version of House. His House.

“You’re welcome,” House responded, the hand in his hair keeping a constant rhythm.

Yeah, Wilson thought as the tendrils of sleep floated over his eyes. Things were good.