House MD Fanfiction

I Should Have Known (plot limit induced part 1)

Hilson, abused!Wilson, 3547 words
By: alanwolfmoon

Wilson had slept over because he had gotten a little drunk, during their 'sappy cop movie marathon', and Amber had been perfectly fine with him staying at House's, and her not having to get out of the nice warm bed to drive him home, where he wouldn't be any fun anyway. 

Now he was snoring on House's couch, borrowed t-shirt pulled a little to the right, so Wilson's left shoulder was visible through the over-large neck hole. Wilson's bruised left shoulder. 

House carefully lifted the fabric a little. 

The bruise extended down, over the shoulder and down behind, past where House could see. No wonder Wilson had been having some trouble writing yesterday's vicodin script. 

Wilson didn't stir, as House pulled the bottom up, to get a look at the younger doctor's stomach. A few more bruises, of varying age.

House stood there, studying his friend's sleeping form. 

Wilson hadn't said anything. Wilson would definitely say something if this was the result of brawls or angry patients. Wilson only *wouldn't* say anything, if it was someone close to him. 

This meant... his brothers, his ex-wives, or Amber. 

Wilson would have told House if his missing brother had showed up again. 

Wilson's non-missing brother was in Boston, working nearly 24/7 on some big project. 

Wilson's ex-wives would be more likely to break something in their hands than bruise Wilson, even if any of them had been at all violent. Which none of them were. At all.

Amber, on the other hand, was practically the same size as Wilson, had a temper, was a bitch, and was definitely strong enough to do this. 

House sat on the arm of the couch, watching Wilson sleep. 

At first he did nothing. The oldest bruise had been maybe three days old, it was possible that this would pass. 

A week later, Wilson was limping heavily as he came into work. 

House found him camped out on this office couch, an icepack on his knee, a grimace of pain on his face. 

“What happened?”

Wilson looked wearily at him, sighing with a slight wince. 

“I tripped on the stairs. Go ahead and laugh, at least I'm not a cripple.”

House didn't laugh.

He sat on the corner of Wilson's desk, looking away. 

Wilson blinked at him, confused. 

Wilson gritted his teeth, as he bent over to pick up the paper he had dropped. A sudden stabbing sensation hit his back, and he fell, gasping, to the floor. 

His back had gone out. This was not usually such a problem. Unfortunately, the only way anyone would be satisfied with that diagnosis was by getting a look at his back, to make sure the pain wasn't from trauma. Getting a look at his back would not convince them it wasn't trauma. It would do the exact opposite. 

He swallowed, panting. 

The balcony door opened, he heard limping footsteps, and a hand rested gently on his uninjured shoulder. 

“Back go out?” asked House's voice, sounding strangely husky. 

“Yeah,” said Wilson, through clenched teeth.