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The first thing House noticed was that Wilson wasn’t talking .
No annoying morning banter. No chirpy (stupidly adorable) “Good morning, House!” from behind a stack of patient files. No mug of coffee waiting on House’s desk like it usually was on Wednesdays.
Just silence.
Boring old silence
So naturally, House went to investigate. By investigate, he meant barging into Wilson’s office uninvited with a dramatic shove of the door.
“You better be dead or naked, Wilson,” House grumbled as he stepped inside Wilson’s office.
Wilson was neither.
Instead he was curled up in his desk chair, a thick blanket wrapped around his shoulders, face flushed pink and pale in equal measure, eyes glossy from behind his glasses. A used tissue dangled from one hand, and the other was clutching a half-full cup of tea like it was a lifeline.
“…Sick,” Wilson croaked, voice hoarse and nasally.
House blinked. Then blinked again. “You… stayed home last time you were sick. Are you trying to die in your office for the insurance money?”
Wilson gave a weak glare. “ Patients. Responsibilities. Unlike you, some of us don’t spend our days ignoring everyone.”
“And yet , here you are, sniffling like a wet kitten and probably infecting half the oncology department.”
Wilson sneezed violently into a tissue.
“…Point proven,” House added.
Without asking, House strode over, plucked the tea out of his hand, sniffed it, made a face, and set it aside. “You didn’t even steep this for the right amount of time. It tastes like regret.”
“I can make my own—”
“Shh,” House interrupted, poking Wilson’s forehead with two fingers. “You’ve got a fever. You’re officially useless and under my care now.”
Wilson groaned. “God help me.”
“Don’t worry. You’ve got me instead, which is even better.”
House dragged Wilson home — his own home, not Wilson’s — under protest.
House shoved him onto the couch, piled blankets over him until he resembled a particularly soft burrito, and turned the TV to some obscure documentary about frogs just to irritate him.
“You're enjoying this,” Wilson muttered, sniffling.
“Oh, immensely,” House replied, setting a steaming cup of properly brewed tea on the coffee table. “You owe me, by the way. For caregiving fees. I'm billing your insurance.”
“You're not even qualified to be a nurse.”
“I’m a doctor . That makes me better. Now shut up and drink your tea, Patient Zero.”
Wilson coughed, then smiled faintly. “You’re not as terrible at this as I expected.”
“Shut up,” House said, but he looked at him a little too long after that and there was the slightest hint of love in his eyes (not like house would ever admit it though).
When Wilson finally dozed off to the sound of frogs on the TV and the narrator's voice, House didn’t move from the recliner next to the couch. He just watched, occasionally adjusting the blanket when Wilson shifted making sure it stayed on Wilson.
House would deny it if anyone asked, of course. But he stayed there all night.
Just in case.