House MD Fanfiction

Hate and Love

Hilson, beat-up!Wilson, Hate Crime, Sexuality Crisis, 3029 words
By: alanwolfmoon

House blinked, as he heard a familiar knock on his front door…but fainter than usual. 

He called for Wilson to let himself in, but the door didn’t open. 

“Dammit, I’m a cripple here,” said House, heaving himself to his feet and limping to the door, “have a little sympathy…”

He pulled the door open, and literally had to take a step back. 

Wilson was there, bloodied, shivering, soaking wet, and crying. 

House shook his head, stepping forward and pulling his friend inside with an arm around the younger doctor’s shoulders, their no-touching taboo be damned. 

Wilson almost clung to him, breathing in shallow, sobbing, hiccupping gasps. 

House led him into the bathroom, sat him on the toilet, and pulled the shower chair out of the bathtub, so he could sit down while he assessed his friend’s injuries. 

Wilson had a long cut above his eyebrow, which seemed to be responsible for most of the blood on his face. There was a bruised blossoming along his jaw on the side opposite the cut. He was hugging his left wrist in close to his body, and holding his side with his right hand. 

House looked Wilson over, decided there was no way he could get Wilson’s jacket off the younger doctor without hurting him, and got a pair of scissors. 

By the time Wilson was shirtless, House knew exactly what had happened. 

At least, how Wilson had gotten hurt. Bruises the shape of fists—different sizes of fists—made it clear his friend had been jumped and beaten by more than one person, at least three, judging by the variety of bruise diameters. 

Wilson is still crying and shivering, so House helps him undo his pants, and then gets him a warm, fluffy towel, and a pair of thick sweatpants. 

Wilson manages to dry himself off with House’s help, and get into the sweatpants. 

It’s at that point that he looses it, any semblance of self-control he’d managed to maintain throughout House’s examination and help was gone. 

He dissolves into inconsolable sobs, and House doesn’t know what to do. 

He really has no idea—he’s never seen anyone over the age of ten act like this, much less Wilson. And, unlike the under-ten-year-olds, he doesn’t think Wilson will be distracted by a lolly-pop enough to stop crying. 

The last time he can remember anyone over the age of ten acting like this, it had been him, House himself, when he was fifteen. His mom had held him close, even though he was a head taller than her at the time, and hadn’t really fit in her lap anymore. 

House sits on the stool, and awkwardly reaches forward, resting one hand on the back of his friend’s head, the other on his friend’s back. 

He’s pretty sure he’s doing it wrong, because Wilson just starts crying harder, so he pulls his hands away, quickly, before he can embarrass them both more than this situation already has. 

But Wilson grips House’s wrist with his good hand, meets House’s eyes with liquid brown eyes overfilling with tears, and House hesitates, then, slowly, moves his arms to embrace his friend once more. 

Wilson clings to him, and sobs into his shoulder, until he runs out of tears. 

House scoots his chair a bit closer, and gently adjusts the towel around Wilson’s shoulders, so it won’t slip off.