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A migraine had taken up residence behind his right eye. With surgical accuracy he could pinpoint exactly where and how it started if he could just focus for forty five seconds. But he couldn’t. For a moment he didn’t realize what was going on, until he tried to move his head and was blindsided by a wave of total whiteout agony. He was standing up over the sink, halfway dressed, running late for the latest fundraiser the hospital was putting on. Just as he was about to start shaving, the room tilted on its axis, he lost his grip on the razor without shredding his hand to ribbons as his stomach heaved. Thud . He fell to the ground in a pathetic, writhing, heap. Wilson, without a second thought, dashed down the hall and found him in a fetal position on the tile floor of the bathroom.
“House! What the fuck is going-?”
House clamped his hands over his ears, screwed his eyes shut, and shook his head. Every syllable rattled his brain around in his skull.
“No talking. Too loud.” He hissed through painfully clenched teeth. Wilson knelt down beside him to look him over. His pulse was fine, vitals were solid, and it didn’t look like he hit his head on the way down as he fell.
“Migraine. Bad.” House ground out to explain. Wilson nodded. Slowly, gently he got House up from the floor, helped him get undressed, and got him beneath the covers of the unmade bed. He shut all the blinds tight, took off his own shoes, ran cool water over a washcloth, wrung it out, and climbed in bed beside him to hold it to his forehead. House shivered as the cold touched his skin, but Wilson’s hand was so warm on his chest, on his shoulders, somewhere through the pounding migraine he was able to savor the feeling of his touch. In the dim light of the room and under his care he noticed little by little House’s stiff shoulders began to relax ever so slightly. House rearranged himself so that his head was on Wilson’s chest and he could curl up onto him like the house cat he was. In the quiet of his bedroom they began to breathe in sync. House’s head still aches but as he listened to the steady beat of Wilson’s heart he started to close his eyes.
“I’ve got you. Try and get some rest.”
House did as he was told, comfortable in his bed he dropped like a stone into a dark lake. Responsibilities? Inhibitions? Gone. Wilson was holding him and that was all that mattered. And Wilson held him close as he slept, only when he was well and truly out cold did he tiptoe out of the room to start getting dinner ready and call them both out of fundraiser duty.
House awoke in the dark alone. The smell of Wilson’s aftershave clung to his pillow. He was with him- recently. What happened?
“Ah.”
Right. The migraine, the cool washcloth, the passing out on his chest. The diagnostician rubbed his eyes and sat up in the empty bed now that the pain in his head had subsided from completely blinding to mostly manageable. Somewhere he idly remembered that there was somewhere he was supposed to be. But as he pulled on a clean shirt and walked out into the living room barefoot he knew he was right where he belonged. Wilson sat on the couch, reading his same busted up copy of Whitman poems that he’d had since high school. It was always in his backpack, lying in wait for a peaceful moment. For a moment in the hall he just looked at him as he read before he noticed he was there watching. He was going gray at his temples, chewing at his thumbnail absentmindedly, he’d showered and changed out of his work clothes, his posture relaxed, comfortable. He looked perfectly at home on the cracked brown leather, glass of white wine sitting on the coffee table (on a coaster) dressed in his oversized McGill sweatshirt with blue boxers. Despite himself, heat rose in his chest just thinking about him . House could count the number of layers on one hand that’d separate them laying skin to skin in the cool of the night. With a sharp exhale House made his way to him, quickly taking up the free real estate beside Wilson.
“Oh ho good evening sleepy, thought you’d be hibernating till spring.” Wilson remarked, putting his book down to stretch.
“Nah, didn’t feel like pulling a Buck Rogers.”
Wilson put an arm around House’s shoulders, idly carding his fingers through his hair.
“I called Cuddy about ditching the benefit.”
“She mad?”
“Pissed. But she’ll get over it once she finds the fruit bouquet you sent her in the morning.”
House gave a mock gasp, “Credit card fraud Dr. Wilson? I am shocked! For shame!”
Wilson rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to drinking his wine, “Please. I bought it, said it was from you. You can pay me back by making me dinner the next time I have a migraine.”
House laid his head on Wilson’s shoulder, “Oh I’ll be sure to do that and much more.”
House's hand trailed up and down the oncologist's thigh and Wilson nearly spat out his wine back into the glass. He blushed like a madman, feeling his breath on his neck, how close he’d gotten. How close they’d been earlier. He bit back, played it cool, he would not get hard right now.
“Right. Ahem," Wilson coughed and House smiled like a cheshire cat, "the leftovers are in the microwave if you’re hungry.”
“Ugh, only if it’s baked ziti.”
“Picky picky.”
“Well is it?”
“Of course it is, why else do you keep me around if not for my powers of the culinary arts?”
House smiled, “I keep you around for your nursing skills too. My head’s all better thanks to you.”
As House got up to grab his plate, Wilson pulled him close by the shirt collar with one hand, kissed him, and made him rest for a second, forehead to forehead.
“I love you.”
“Love you too.”