Work Text:
House had been in bed since sunset, slept through the night like a baby; waking up every few hours with a new problem. At first, it was him just hungry; he skipped dinner since he was forced by Cuddy to work late to make up for whatever reason she gave, so he made a quick snack of a granola bar and went back to bed. The second time, within the same hour of the late night, his mind told him he forgot to lock his car, which made him clench his jaw and ignore it. It was a pattern, an annoying pattern that only frustrated him into taking sleeping pills like candy.
By the time the sun made its appearance, House thanked himself for never opening his curtains. It made mornings easier and sleep less evasive. His eyes shifted to the immediate enemy in his room, the clock as it made its usual ticking. This morning, he wasn't up for it. With a spinning head, he forced himself up on his knuckles, making them go white. House groaned, a disgusting feeling washing over him like acid.
Waking up was one thing, getting up was another. The mattress groaned out a breath as House flopped back down, quickly abandoning his plan, his hand reaching on the nightstand beside the bed, grasping around a water bottle he kept there for days like these, tossing it at the clock with surprising force for a sick man. The clock made a shrill sound against the wall, like nails on a chalkboard, infuriatingly, the devil clock didn't fall.
House grabbed another thing, he wasn't even looking at what he grabbed when he flung it at the clock, he only knew it caused the clock to fall when he heard a beautiful clack of glass against hardwood floor. Except… Quickly, it became a not so beautiful thing. Now the ticking sounded like it echoed... House's eye twitched, why did he even have a clock? He has a phone, a watch, and other tech to tell him the same damn thing.
House's charged gaze softened as it went to his phone as the box on the bed, under his pillow, vibrated. His work alarm. Eh, he could afford to ignore it. He did overtime yesterday when he didn't want to, payback against Cuddy.
House had never been one to complain of pain unless it got him drugs, but with his head spinning and his clock driving him insane, he mainly needed someone to shut off that damn clock or throw it out his window and hopefully hit someone.
House reached for his phone, he had half a mind to throw it at the clock, but that would only slam the clock against the wall and it would keep ticking. House made the decision without looking, whoever he texted last would be fine. Even if it was Foreman. House pressed call and put it to his ear.
The ringtone was painful, making his head throb so he turned it down. When the call was picked up, House must've sighed, because the other person groaned.
"Hello, House..." Wilson spoke, he was in the middle of paperwork, because unlike someone, he likes his job. The creek of his chair told House that Wilson had sat up straighter. Pathetic nerd.
"Wilson. I have a quest for you," House spoke, unperturbed at Wilson's bitchassness. House looked at the devil in the corner, maybe an angry glare would make it shut up for just a second.
"... House, I swear to god- I am not an errand boy for you. Where even are you? You're late by-" Wilson did check the time but didn't feel like calculating it, "- however long! And your weirdly unsocial team of mental issues in human form are all acting like lost dogs waiting for master!" Wilson on the other hand was QUITE perturbed. Wilson was always weird like that, acting like sensitivity got his ass everywhere. Which it did, if you count his mental journey to Butt Hurt Isle in his weird mushy brain and heart along the Path of Oversensitive Nerves.
It wasn't that House didn't like Wilson, no, he did. He just... Didn't like when Wilson visited Butt Hurt Isle practically everyday, but he couldn't show vulnerability, where would his awesome personality go?
Apparently, the silence got to Wilson quicker than a knife between the ribs. "Fine! Fine, House, I'm coming over! I'll push my work onto someone else JUST like YOU do!" Wilson hung up quicker than a Catholic girl being offered marijuana.
|-( Timeskip, suck it up )-|
Wilson had creeped into the room, leaning against the door frame, eyes fixated on the door like it was the most interesting of the decor (it's House's home, it definitely isn't). Wilson never knew how to start a conversation in a way that wouldn't make House annoyed.
"... House..." Wilson speaks with a disappointed tone, eyes drifting down to the floor. Slightly upset that he learned the news from Cuddy and not House himself.
"... I don't need a babysitter, that's final," House grumbled, pushing himself onto his other side.
Wilson's eyes rolled as he stepped in the room, House acting like a difficult child was nothing new, which made it all the more ironic after what he said. Wilson's eyes drifted to House's bad leg, the weight on it probably wasn't comfortable, making Wilson's eyebrows furrow with a sad puppy-like expression.
"Wilson. I swear, I turn over there and you're looking like some pathetic mutt, I'm hitting you with my cane. I'm disabled, not fragile," House spoke dryly, Wilson's eyes widened as he looked away sheepishly. House wouldn't actually hit Wilson, well, he would if he could. He left his cane in the living room last night after grabbing that granola bar.
"I know- I know- I just-..." Wilson purposely trailed off, House wouldn't accept it anyway. Wilson always worried, it was a fundamental part of him. Some people would turn a blind eye to patients dying every day, but Wilson can't. Even if he doesn't know them or they weren't a part of his section in the hospital, if they lived on the other side of the world or was someone he hated, he always mourned death like it was something HE could fix. That death was an ailment, not finality. It's why he even got into oncology, why he's so involved with House's patients too.
"Wilson. Either you're overthinking or you're standing there for sport. My bet is on overthinking, but who knows, you can surprise me at times," House's comment made Wilson scoff.
"Oh, shut up, you know that doesn't work. I never surprise you," Wilson folded his arms against his chest in the way he did when House ever tried to compliment him. House's compliments were never genuine, at least, Wilson didn't want to think so, or that means House actually likes him... How could House like him after what he's done? He's crazy, isn't he? House always insults him and acts like he's just someone he can ramble too and not have it matter.
House just stayed quiet, he genuinely did get surprised by Wilson at times, but he could never say it genuinely or Wilson would think he's weird. It also meant vulnerability, which meant icky feelings and nasty conversations of ACTUAL affection. Ew. His parents never showed affection, so what does it matter? If they could make it work, it means somewhere in their empty and cold hearts, affection isn't a necessity.
"... I'll go make you soup..." Wilson awkwardly spoke, the room was far too... Uncomfortable. Of course! Wilson had to go say something and make everything uncomfortable. Why did he only function when alone? Gods- he's a goddamn idiot.
"Don't overly salt it like a goddamn baked potato like last time," House mumbled, the air was tense, so of course, House had to make a sarcastic reply. House hadn't turned but knew Wilson left the room by the sound of light footsteps walking off. Wilson's cologne lingered in the air. How could someone that perfect exist? His little dimple on his chin, his perfectly swooped hair which reminded him of a character on one of his favorite shows. That stupid happy-go-lucky attitude like he doesn't have to pay taxes.
As Wilson was in the kitchen, House's thoughts drifted. Sure, House tends to think of his job as a necessary challenge, but he wanted to go see his ducklings. Mainly his Chukar bird (see author's note at end). His Chukar would at least be somewhat better company then Wilson when Wilson over thinks like it's a competition.
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Wilson worked quietly on the soup the way House liked it. Chopping up vegetables, his work with a knife was skilled, practiced. He cut with stressed efficiency, his hand too tight around the handle, his posture too rigid, his eyes strained. His mind was at war with multiple perspectives;
... I'm wasting his time, House won't appreciate it, he never does. He steals, yet I still call him a friend? House hates me, only using me to info dump about his problems. I care too much. What if I put cherry cola in the soup? What if House leaves? He leaves me no lunch, stealing whatever he wants. House is a horrible person, I'm a horrible person. If I'm a bad person, that means my family is too. Everyone is bad, it evens out. What if House is allergic to something in the soup? What if a patient of his dies while he's here? He should just leave. House doesn't mean what he says...
His chopping grew faster, his urge to finish the dish becoming urgent. He needed to go. No- he needed to stay. His internal conflict paranoid him. Until chopping went silent. Wilson's shoulders relaxed: breathe and make a plan. Texting his coworkers would provide an update into his patients, hurrying the soup will most likely make him accidentally hurt himself.
His hand fumbled around his pocket, where was his phone? His wallet, keys, all there. But his phone? Shit- did he leave it home? Wilson internally sighed. Whatever- forgo the plan and just finish the damn dish.
An ache through Wilson's veins made Wilson groan. He switched House's knife to his other hand. Good thing he learned to be ambidextrous in college to avoid hand cramping when writing essays. Changing the knife to his other hand did provide a relief to his aching hand. Felt like his nerve was being chewed on by an agonizingly dull fanged beast. Is this how House's leg feels?
Wilson was snapped out of his thoughts by House, impatient and annoyed, calling for him. Wilson's hands tensed, but he set everything down, slowly, he relaxed his hands to a calm position.
"Yes, House?" Wilson called out as he headed into the bedroom with a 'what in the possible hell could you want now?' House stared at him expectantly. "... What?" Wilson's tone changed to genuinely confused, looking down at himself, did he have something on him?
"Not you, can you throw the clock out?" House grumbled, how did he even forget to ask? It was the main reason he called in the first place!
"... Clock...?" Wilson looked at where the clock SHOULD be mounted but... "House. Where is your clock?" Wilson asked, looking back at House confused like a puppy.
"... Down," House shrugged, acting nonchalant about trying to break his clock earlier, like it was more of a whoops and not a full blown clock assassination attempt.
"What?" Wilson muttered, looking back, looking down from the clock peg. Why was Wilson surprised? It was House. Of course he tried assassination. "... I'll fix it-"
"Not. Fix. Get it gone," House just sounded like he was talking down to Wilson, which made Wilson frown, but ultimately, Wilson moved the clock. Win for House, lose for the enemy.
"Is that your only problem, your Majesty?" Wilson sassed, making House crack a smile.
"Mm... No," House decided, "y'know- I need my laundry done and-"
Wilson didn't let House finish, reaching into House's closet, grabbing a sweater and tossing it at House's face, "No. Do it yourself," Wilson left the room and headed back into the kitchen. It was about time to finish the dinner, give it to House, go check on patients, apologize to his staff, maybe do some work, then go home.
As Wilson left into the kitchen, House verbally boo-ed him. Which made Wilson have to hold back a smile, House is such a dork.