Chapter Text
Wilson almost dropped the needle when House barged into his office.
„I knew Foreman was hiding something, sleek bastard“, House opened, while the door slammed shut behind him. Without looking at Wilson, he limped a couple pace into the room, then turned, and pulled up his brow.
„You should put up a sign when you masturbate“, he stated, hand awkwardly waving at Wilson, who was seated with his pants down to his ankles in the visitor‘s chair.
„There is a sign“, Wilson sighed, already flustered, „a big fat one. It says, ‚Do Not Disturb‘.“
House pulled a face, turned towards the door, then back to Wilson.
„Didn‘t see it. Nurse must have took it down.“
„Ok then, fuck off. I‘m in the middle of something.“
„Flu shot?“, House asked, nodding at the equipment.
Wilson‘s relaxed his death grip on the needle and put it down in a kidney bowl on his desk. He would do this later, without House nosing around.
„What about Foreman?“, Wilson tried to distract while he got up and pulled his pants up over his boxers, happy to go through careful ritual of tucking his shirt back in and buckling his belt. Instead of facing House and coming to terms with his embarassment.
To Wilson‘s dismay, House was watching him, apparently not very interested in Foreman‘s wrong-doings anymore.
Wilson put on a neutral voice and tried to steer the conversation back to where it had been headed. „Eric‘s never been sleek. He‘s polite, if a bit of a bad actor.“
House tilted his head, silently inquiring.
„Never met a doctor who had to psyche himself up to inject themselves subcutanously“, he diagnostician commented coldly.
Wilson flushed against his will, and bit down on the inside of his cheek to calm his sudden anger. He had a right to privacy, didn‘t he? So he bit back:
„Well, I never met a doctor who gave willingly himself a charcuterie-board of tumors and removed them in his own bathtub. Which he doesn‘t clean regularly, I‘d like to add.“
„Not everybody can be clever and sexy like me“, House huffed. „Are you going on a flight?“
„It‘s not Heparin“, Wilson sighed, satisfied with the state of his clothes. He walked back over to his desk and put on his lab coat. „What about Foreman? You come in here to tattle and don‘t serve the gossip.“
House leaned against his desk. „Whatever is going on here is much more interesting.“ He tapped his cane, watching Wilson shuffle his papers.
„It‘s none of your business“, Wilson said, which should have been enough to draw a boundary with anyone sane. But House wasn‘t that, and judging from what was happening, Wilson wasn‘t either. He could just tell him, get it over with and get through the certain ridicule and out to the other side. House would let it slip, eventually, wouldn‘t he?
But would he keep it to himself?
Wilson looked up when House clicked his tongue. „That makes it much more interesting, though.“
„What makes you think I would trust you with my medical details?“
House looked stunned for a moment. „You‘re my emergency contact“, he said simply, like that would explain it.
„Yes, but you‘re not mine.“ His was Cuddy. Because she was reliable, and because she already knew.
Not bothering to analyze how House reacted to the statement, Wilson woke his PC from stand-by and opened the excel sheet that promised to be his saving grace.
„You clinic duty started 20 minutes ago.“ He looked up at his friend innocently. „Get there, now. Or I‘ll call Cuddy.“
House scratched his beard and lazily got into motion. Remaining in the doorway, he looked back at Wilson and silently reached into his pocket to shake out an ibuprofen. Then he limped away, leaving Wilson with a daunting feeling.
The day after Wilson tended to a sleeping patient surrounded by their mourning family, Chase suddenly appeared. He waited patiently in the corner while Wilson put his condolences into words of affirmation, emphasizing, as always, how valuable the little time they had together could be - from his experience. When he could no longer stand Chase boring holes in the back of his skull, he took the younger man by the sleeve and excused them from the room.
Wilson sighed, shaking off the stress of care work.
„What is it? Consult?“
Chase shook his head. „No, worse. I‘m supposed to ask you ‚if the patient presents with a co-infection of chlamydia and gonorrhoe, and if the injection of antibiotics is the preferred treatment in this case?“
Chase had the confidence to look inquiringly, and Wilson considered for a brief moment if the doctor had advanced to be just as mean and careless as House, or become more stupid as the years went on.
„I‘m not going to answer that“, Wilson said, throwing a glance at his watch. Almost lunch.
„Cool“, Chase noted and looked at his clipboard. „In that case, House gave me a couple more questions. 2) does the patient require botox injections for mucle spaciscity in the upper thigh?“
Wilson left Chase standing where he was and shut himself in his office for lunch. He had a small fridge in there, mostly for sparkling soda, but alsofor keeping the Enthanate stable. He had to inject today, or at latests tomorrow morning, else his levels would decrease more than he liked.
Wilson stood in front of the fridge and tried to psyche himself up for another go. He could just call a nurse or another doctor, but injecting himself had always been so strangely intimate and also a point of pride. He could do the shots, he had done all of them - once a week for the last 17 years. Sometimes his wives had done it, but it was too much of a chore for them to do it regularly. Also he was the doctor, wasn‘t he?
Wilson barked a laugh at himself. 17 years - he was still hesitant to the bone to poke a needle into himself and administer what he needed to live comfortably. He rolled up his sleeves and retrieved a packaged clean needle from his desk drawer.
His phone went off and he checked to see that it was only House.
- Chinese @mine? 2night
Wilson smiled and texted back.
- Your turn to buy. See you later.
House:
- Never. Bring extra crab chips.
Wilson put his phone away and drew the curtains to the shared balcony before he prepared the shot and pulled down his pants. He looked at the haematoma on his thighs and frowned at his shabby hand work. A doctor should, maybe, give himself cleaner injections.
Never mind. He took a deep breath and got on with it.
House waited until Wilson put away the styrofoam container and put his legs up with a sound of content before pulling the folder from between the couch cushions.
Still chewing, he said: „Got your lab records from your secretary, everything‘s looking good.“
Wilson sighed. „You didn‘t“, he moaned, picking up the folder and finding the confirmation. „House, you‘ve got no business looking at my data.“
House continued chewing, looking thoughtful for a moment. Then he shrugged.
„What if it was cancer and you didn‘t tell me?“
Wilson frowned. „Maybe there‘s another way to look at that problem“, he mumbled under his breath while flipping through the file. It was only the last two months recorded.
„So you wouldn‘t tell me?“
Wilson leaned back, looking at his friend.
„I would tell you eventually. If something was wrong.“
House held his gaze, swallowing soundly.
„So then why won‘t you tell me what the shots are for“, he said, voice less sarcastic than usual.
„It was only one injection“, Wilson lied.
„Yup, that‘s why your legs are black and blue“, House said, audibly disappointed by Wilson‘s answer. He pushed himself forward to throw the styrofoam in the direction of the coffee table and sank back with a groan.
Wilson tried not to look at his leg too obviously.
„Bad day?“, he asked, tone lighter now that he had access to his empathy again. House in pain was something he knew well. House suspicious of him (caring even?), that felt odd and unfamiliar. Unbelievable.
„Don‘t deflect“, House said, also a bit mellowed out.
Wilson looked up and smiled at him.
„I‘m not sick, House. I‘m feeling good.“
House looked at him, slowly nodding. „That‘s good.“ He pursed his lips, still puzzled. „I have a feeling you not telling me what your injecting yourself with has something to do with the reason you won‘t tell me in the first place.“
Wilson groaned and fell back into the cushions.
„It‘s obviously not the fun kind of drugs, although that would be a very good reason not to tell me - you might have to share them from now on.“
„We have a deal“, Wilson reminded him. He looked up at House, suddenly overcome by doubt. He sat up. „You‘re sober, right?“
„Yes.“
„Cool. So am I.“
House nodded, small smile tugging at his lips. Wilson felt guilt tug at his chest - they had a deal, they trusted each other to the degree of being each other‘s accountability buddy. Not that Wilson needed one, but House did and Wilson was eager to help.
It had been a bit weird in the beginning, but it didn‘t take long for them to make not-drinking a part of their friendship, and not all that much changed. It was healthier anyways.
Wilson looked at House more warmly: House, who evidently trusted him in many ways with his many ailments and idiosyncrasies.
„So why won‘t you tell me?“, House asked, again, voice a bit rough.
Wilson closed his eyes. He didn‘t want House to think he didn‘t trust him, not really - not fundamentally.
„What would you do with that knowledge?“, he asked back, deflated.
House shrugged, Wilson felt it through the couch.
„I could help“, House offered. Wilson opened his eyes and scanned the other man‘s face, which was neutral and attentive. „You‘re literally giving yourself a beating with that needle, if it‘s something that you need to do weekly then it‘s better to have a steady hand.“
Wilon‘s lashes fluttered, his heart raced, not really sure why.
Weekly? How did House know?
„I‘m allowed to have one secret, House“, he stuttered, hoping he was finally making himself clear on the matter. He didn‘t want anyone doing it for him, it was his responsibility.
House sighed, frustrated.
„It‘s not really a secret.“
Wilson‘s heart stopped. He felt the blood rushing through his ears, rendering him deaf and mute for a few long seconds.
„How‘d you know?“, he scrambled.
„The size of your feet, for one“, House said, simply, without empathy. „And the haematoma means you‘re injecting the testosterone weekly. After that, everything fell into place.“
Wilson swallowed and remained silent, staring ahead at the wall.
House sat up a little bit, looking at his shoes. Suddenly, the air in the rooms was dense and stuffy.
„And you wouldn‘t tell me..“, House continued, „presumably because...I‘d make fun of you?“
„Well“, Wilson said and stood suddenly. He felt dizzy. „You figured it out on your own. I‘m going to go.“ He stumbled over his words, stumbled over his uncoordinated feet and left the trash where it was to grab his coat and keyes.
House watched him from the couch, irritated, licking his lips. „Wouldn‘t it be weirder if I didn‘t mock you? I‘m no expert on social convention...“
„Oh, I know...“, Wilson couldn‘t help himself but bark as he tied his shoes.
„But is not talking about it making it...more taboo? More perverted?“
Wilson stood and faced House. He was feeling ashamed and angered and spiteful all at the same time „I‘m not a pervert, House.“
House shut his mouth and looked down, then up again with a frown. „Wrong vocabulary. But I know that“, he said, „I‘m just...telling you that it‘s...“.
„Ok?“, Wilson said, a bit lost for words. He wanted to go badly, and he should. With one hand on the door knob, he called: „I don‘t need you to tell me you don‘t mind.“
When his mind had cleared and he had half a day of work behind him to make himself feel like a normal human („I‘m your oncologist, Dr. James Wilson. Please come in and make yourself comfortable.“), he headed towards the diagnostics department and yanked House out of a meeting under the eyes of three very confused ducklings.
„You‘re undermining my authority“, House complained but followed him outside nonetheless with a look like he was being ordered to the school director‘s office.
When Wilson had him cornered on the windy balcony and looking appropriately irritated he crossed his arms and made himself look at his friend.
„Who‘d you tell?“, he asked, anger seeping from him. Wilson didn‘t like himself like this, but he didn‘t like House either at the moment.
House rolled his eyes. „No one, dumbo“, he said. „Who‘d believe me?“
Wilson considered this.
„You let other people‘s secret slip all the time!“
„Yeah, but who‘d believe me if I said boy-wonder oncologist James Wilson‘s chromosomes might be a bit of a surprise?“
Wilson‘s jaw worked while he doubted that House would phrase it that way.
„You‘re angry with me for making a clever deduction?“, House asked, frowning but attentive.
„I‘m angry because you‘re not supposed to know!“
House raised his hands in a hopeless motion. „And you weren‘t supposed to help me wash my shrivelled nuts after the infarction. Or see me dozing in my own vomit when I overdosed. Tough luck, Jimmy!“
„If you tell anybody...“
Houe shrugged. „We‘re not friends anymore, I get it. So I won‘t.“
Wilson was doubtful, still shaking with anger, but at a loss for words. What more could he ask for, now?
„If you tell anybody, House, my life is over.“
„Stop looking so afraid, it‘s not the nineties anymore“, House barked a laugh at him. „Like anybody at the hospital is going to think you‘re secretly something else. I mean, do you look at yourself?“
Wilson flinched at the levity of his tone, it touched his wound. He looked at himself frequently, and he could see where other people might stumble over him, might take a second, doubtful look. He brought a hand to his neck and scratched the skin to soothe himself.
„You might be pretty“, House said, shoving him out off the way so he could limp past him and back inside, „but you‘re not pretty enough to be mistaken for a woman.“
Wilson swallowed, bitter anxiety not comforted by House‘s comments.
A week passed and the world didn‘t end. House didn‘t appear to have told anybody, and Wilson kept his threat active by avoiding him the best he could. The embarrassment of revealing his identity faded into the background and made space for a newer, hotter shade of shame that was connected to how he had handled the whole thing overall. In retrospect, he could have expected House to find out sooner or later, and he could have expected House to play games with him about it.
In hind sight, Wilson could have been calmer, steadier, less emotional about the whole thing. It was a fact that he needed hormone replacement therapy, it was a fact that for nearly two decades he lived as a man to everyone he knew. Most people he spend time with never knew him different.
Still, he felt a foot or so smaller when House‘s eyes measured him. He wasn‘t sure whether the other man was gauging him as a way to see how fucked their relationship was at the moment, or whether he was now seeing Wilson in a different light and reevaluating what he saw.
Another week passed, and Wilson‘s anxieties became a background noise that he could deal with. He had short, if guarded, exchanges with House between doorways. He had pleasant conversations with his staff and less-pleasant meetings with his patients, but at least they seemed to not notice any difference in him.
Cuddy did, when they caught up on their bi-weekly coffee date.
„What‘s bugging you?“, she asked offhandedly while loading her americano with sugar. It was a sunny day and they had gone for coffee from a vendor in the park.
Wilson took a couple seconds to consider if he had it in him to act all brave and secure, but quickly broke into a sigh and wiped his brow.
„House knows“, he said lowly.
Cuddy turned to him, confused. „About Foreman‘s twin? I thought that‘s old news already.“
Wilson felt a pinch of FOMO. He had really been so preoccupied with himself he had missed out on relevant hospital gossip.
„You need to catch me up on that later“, he urged. „But no, House knows I‘m not...“
Cuddy visible did the math.
„Cis“, she supplied helpfully. Wilson looked at her, a bit helpless. He wasn‘t good with the new vocabulary, for one because it set him on edge even thinking about it sometimes. He was happy to just go through his life mostly not thinking about it.
„Yup“, he said.
Cuddy took a deep breath and steered them away from the vendor and into the park.
„So, when did you tell him?“
„I didn‘t. He found out on his own. Saw me injecting myself, asked a bunch of questions. Even got Robert in on the hunt for clues. Eventually he put the clues together, and told me it was...ok?“
Cuddy frowned. „Told you it would be better to tell him eventually. Would have saved you a bit of stress.“
Wilson hissed. „He‘s going to mock me nonetheless.“
„He‘s your best friend“, Cuddy reminded him. „You‘ve endured worse.“
„That doesn‘t make it okay!“
Cuddy sighed and slapped his arm. „You didn‘t ever leave, idiot! Just don‘t be his friend if you don‘t trust him to be yours!“
Wilson nodded and sighed. „You‘re right. I‘m being sensitive.“
„Yes, you are“, Cuddy said, exasperated. „Man up or something.“
„That‘s not an appropriate thing to say, I think“, Wilson murmured.
„To a man?!“, Cuddy said, waving at him with urgency. „Which you are?“
Wilson shrugged. „I guess it is.“
„You‘re doing feminist rhetoric in circles up there?“, she asked, pointing at his head. „It‘s easy, Wilson, don‘t overthink it. If he‘s being an ass, tell him off. If he‘s outing you to other people, deny it if you don‘t feel comfortable. He‘s a nutcase, nobody believes him anyways.“
„He‘s a diagnostician“, Wilson hinted.
Cuddy‘s brows rose up. „And you‘re not sick.“
Wilson blinked.
„You‘re being a sensitive bitch“, Cuddy laughed. „You‘re safe, your job is safe“, she reaffirmed him. „Your best friend accepts you.“
„You‘re right. Thank you. How‘s your kid?“, he changed topic while they walked back to the hospital.
Three week after their argument, House barged into Wilson‘s office demanding an answer to his earlier text.
„You coming to the fight, or what?“, he asked, dropping himself on the oncologist‘s couch. Wilson sighed, not looking up.
„Sweaty men, hot chicks, alcohol free booze, you and me how‘s that?“, House sold to him lamely, rubbing his leg.
Wilson looked up, mustering him. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on House‘s face. His visit was more likely a distraction from the pain then an attempt at trying to hold Wilson accountable.
„You don‘t look like you‘re going out tonight“, he noted and went back to his papers.
„And here I was, thinking I was being forgiven“, House complained. „For coming to know my best friend in the whole wide world a bit better.“
Wilson rubbed his temples.
„I‘ve been nice to you for a while now, what more do you want?“, House barked.
Wilson looked him in the eye, unimpressed.
„You squirted ketchup on my lab coat less than 24 hours ago.“
„That was an accident“, House said, raising his hands in defense.
„And you keyed a pentacle into my office door!“
House huffed. „Everyone has a right to know where the devil lives...“
Wilson‘s voice rose critically. „This is still a christian country, House, and people need to be able to trust me as their-“
House tilted his head. „Do you want me to treat you differently?“
Wilson sat back, not sure what to say.
„Because I can. I can call you my ‚bro‘ and be careful to never undermine your masculinity and make devaluing jokes about women and queers so that we can feel like a powerful unit on top of the social pyramid. Not sure that would benefit either of us, but hey.“
Wilson bit down hard and looked out the window. He felt at unease with House, just slightly, ever since his friend found out he was trans. He was, on the on hand, fine with the truth and comfortable. On the other hand, deeply deeply insecure about how it would change their relationship.
„I guess I‘m just waiting for you to call me a slur“, Wilson murmured.
„Fine“, House shrugged, face lit up. „Faggot, queer, tranny, gay boy, soy boy...ok I‘m running out. Now you can call me an asshole and a cripple and a emotionally deficient bigot and we can get out of here and see the boxing game?“
Silence spread across the room, not unlike a couple weeks ago in House‘s apartment.
Finally, House got up and hobbled toward the door, having given up.
„I don‘t want anything to change, Wilson“, he said, hand on the door handle.
Wilson tucked his head and looked at his hands.
„I need some time to wrap my head around everything“, Wilson said, seeing the irony only as he said it out loud.
„OK buddy“, House said softly and left.
Four weeks after their fight, he knocked on House‘s door in the middle of the night and waited for it to open while the wind and rain whipped against the houses on the street.
House opened with half his hair plastered against the side of his face, the other one sticking up. He must have been half-asleep, since he asked „Booty call?“, before he shook his head and stepped aside to let Wilson in.
„I need to talk to you“, Wilson announced while he took off his coat and looked around the dimly lit apartment.
„Figured“, House said, and stalked into the kitchen to make coffee. The digital radio told 1:20 a.m. „Grab me some“, he called from the counter and Wilson dutifully stepped through to House‘s bedroom and retrieved the ibuprofen from his bedside table. For a moment, he held the orange plastic bottle in hand and considered that it once held vicodin (not this one, exactly, but Vicodin was once the refill off choice). Wilson thought of the long way House had come, and the moments of empathy and apathy Wilson had displayed throughout.
Wilson wasn‘t a perfect friend, and it bothered him. House wasn‘t a perfect friend, and that usually didn‘t bother him all that much.
He returned to the kitchen and exchanged the pills for a mug. House didn‘t make an attempt at laying his hair more orderly, and looked like an unkempt but soft-hearted academic from those novels Wilson liked in the orange kitchen island light.
„I figured it out“, Wilson said, less tense now that he had a mug to hold on to. House mustered him sleepily. „What‘s changed.“
„Spit it.“
„I don‘t have a way of being vulnerable with you. And I‘m forced to be vulnerable, because you found out what makes me different from everyone else.“
House considered this.
He shrugged and took a drink. „Ok?
Wilson sat down and let his shoulders sink. „Sorry, that‘s the whole extent of my insomniac epiphany.“
House sneered, but not unfriendly. „Those are rarely any good, I find.“
Wilson nodded, a small smile on his lips.
They sat in silence for a minute, sipping coffee, thinking.
„I guess“, House said after a while, „I don‘t have a way of being vulnerable with you either.“
Wilson squinted. „You don‘t really do with anyone.“
„Cheers.“
They clinked mugs. More silence followed, more thinking.
Eventually, House lifted his head, mouth open, hesitant. „I could still...“, House began, clearly unhappy with how he was wording it. „It would be professional, routine.“
Wilson examined his face carefully.
„We‘re doctors“, Wilson said, satisfied with the severity he found there, and finishing the thought hanging between them. „We deal with vulnerability by fixing it.“
House frowned. „Actually, you do. I do medical crosswords in a room full of idiots - helps me think.“ He put down his mug. „Would you really be less angry with me if I stick a needle in you?“
„You‘d show support and care“, Wilson thought out loud, „in a way that you can.“
House looked at him, analyzing his face.
„Yeah“, he said.
„Ok“, Wilson said and left.
They agreed to do the first shot at the end of the day, when most of the staff would have left and the clinic was closed. House demanded they needed a sterile place, Wilson‘s office grazed by teary and snotty patients wouldn‘t do, and he needed a chair and a lab coat to ‚look the part‘.
„You never care about that“, Wilson noted on the elevator ride down to the clinic.
„We‘re roleplaying being professionals“, House said, fake-irritated with Wilson. He was, in fact, in good spirits and even winked at Cameron when she said goodbye to go home. „I need equipment to get into character.“
Wilson rolled his eyes but thought rather fondly of House‘s antics. Nothing worse than a doctor more tense than his patients, he thought.
They found a sterilized room and House got to work, pulling out gloves and disinfectant and two syringes. He let Wilson look over his shoulder while he pulled the right amount of testosterone ethanate up and flicked the syringe to get any bubbles to the top.
Wilson undressed silently and sat down on the stretcher. When House turned around on the wheely chair, he started frowning at Wilon‘s legs.
„Those are my good boxers“, Wilson deflected.
„I‘m not putting a needle in that“, House huffed and turned around to get to a drawer. He rolled back with a tube of cream and squirted a dollop each on the purplish skin.
Wilson accepted the gesture by pursing his lips and rubbing the cream in sheepishly.
„Take off your shirt“, House ordered, attention back on his equipment. „Tummy it is.“
Wilson unbuttoned his dress shirt and pulled up his undershirt to under his chet. House rolled closer with a pair of deinfectant-loaded tweezers in his hand.
„Tuck in you tummy“, he ordered, looking up at Wilson with the hint of an evil grin.
„Already am“, Wilson bit out, not unamused.
House nodded and chose a bit of skin to rub alcohol on, then rolled away to get the syringe, leaving icy coolness behind. He was back a second later, steadying himself with a hand on Wilson‘s knee before taking a roll of Wilson‘s stomach between his thumb and first finger and aiming the syringe.
He looked up, gauging his friend‘s reaction.
„You might want to look away for this one“, he said.
Wilson was already leaned back and looking up, ready for it to be over like a good patient. So what if House decided, just for a moment, to shut up and be a good doctor. He gave the shot at the right angle, with steady hands, retrieved and put a bit of gauze on the wound, just enough pressure to keep it from bleeding while he threw the used equipment into a sharps container.
When Wilson seemed to be zoned out, he took the younger man‘s hand and pressed it on the gauze like he would with any patient.
„You really don‘t like needles, huh?“, he asked while he opened a band aid. It was one for children with red race cars and when Wilson saw it he found it rather kitsch.
„I don‘t“, Wilson agreed, watching from above as House pushed his hand away and applied the band aid.
„I want to take a blood sample“, House said. „To monitor your levels.“
„I thought as much“, Wilson said, sighing.
House tapped his knee lightly, face inquiring.
„Do it“, Wilson agreed, pumping his fist and holding out his arm. House took him by the elbow and flicked his vein a couple time, then got the second syringe.
When it was over and Wilson was dressed they sterilized the room at his insistence and went back upstairs to gather their things.
House was silent on the ride up. At some point he turned to Wilson and asked:
„Still angry?“
Wilson smiled tiredly. „Not really. Just...frustrated. I‘m a man, I should be able to do it myself.“
„Nice train of thought, had the same when I tried to de-tumor my leg in the tub“, House said dryly, giving him a thumbs up. Wilson smirked, thankful for the levity.
„But“, House started again, looking at his shoes, „yeah, if you ever need another guy-doctor doing a nurses job...say the word.“
Wilson looked up at him with soft eyes. „Next week?“
House nodded, and the elevator stopped.
The next time House didn‘t insist on doing it in the clinic and Wilson thought maybe his reasoning hadn‘t been about hygiene but rather about getting on neutral grounds. When the next shot was due as week later, they locked themselves into Wilson‘s office and talked about Chase‘s new boyfriend while getting the materials ready.
Wilson was gloved up and disinfecting his stomach generously while House watched him from the couch, listening to the story of his run-in with them earlier that day.
„Must be fresh, they both look like they have the pocks“, Wilson mused.
„I haven‘t given the kids ‚the talk‘ yet“, House fretted, pursing his lips. „Be a dear and tell your secretary to schedule one for next Monday.“
Wilson looked up, incredulous. „To tell them what? Always tip and never overestimate condom size?“
House shook his head. „I never tip.“
„But you always overestimate condom size“, Wilson quipped and House chuckled.
„I‘m ready, if you are.“
House put gloves and glasses on and beckoned Wilson to sit next to him. The angle was more awkward with both of them sitting at the same height, but Wilson didn‘t want to stand in front of House...that would be impossibly more awkward.
„Didn‘t bruise“, House noticed, looking at where the ealier injection might have been if there had been a visible mark.
„No, you did good“, Wilson said.
House flinched, almost imperceptibly, and readied the syringe.
This time Wilson felt less nervous and once the initial pain was gone and there was only pressure, he could take a moment while he looked at the ceiling to think of what was going on. They were body-engineering him. Where he‘d once, especially in the beginning and then less and less so, felt like he was abusing substances and doping himself to be more freakish, having a second person with a medical degree doing it with him felt all the more legitimate. There was also something inherently wrong with thinking like that, but Wilson had long accepted that he was not one of those self-assured and revolutionary trans-folk. He wanted to be as normal as possible and leaned into any comfort offered to him.
„Ok?“, House asked somewhere next to him, bowed at an awkward level. He pressure receded and warm fingers brushed over his skin.
„Yeah“, Wilson agreed, „the sharps container is in my desk drawer.“
„Bum leg“, House grunted and offered Wilson the syringe. They swapped it for a band aid, which House applied before rolling down Wilson‘s undershirt and throwing a probationary glance in his direction.
„Huh, you‘re really less of an asshole now that I get to stab you“, House wondered.
„As are you“, Wilson replied and rose to get rid of the needle.
House sank bank into the couch. „Return the favor and inject some morphine into me?“
„No.“
„But mooooom.“
„Come on, let‘s get dinner. I‘m buying.“