Work Text:
Two pink lines on a stick. That’s the first thing House registers.
The second thing, two blue eyes. His own, looking at his reflection in the mirror.
The third thing, that begrudgingly familiar, burning ache in his leg. It would seem that the shock from the test’s results had overwhelmed his system for but a few fleeting seconds.
He was pregnant.
____.____
Of course it’s Wilson’s, who else’s kid would it be? It’s not like he sleeps with every guy he knows. In fact, Wilson was the only guy he’d slept with in months, and since he estimates his pregnancy to be only a few weeks along, there was really no doubt about who the other genetic contributor was.
It happened all too long ago, yet when House thinks back, it feels like yesterday. They’d both been drinking, Wilson said something, House said something witty in response, one thing led to another and then he was on top of Wilson in the back of his car. It was quick, messy. Two friends acting upon their most carnal, base desires.
Wilson had finished inside of him, but they were both too wasted to care.
The next morning, Wilson had tried to talk to House about what had transpired between them, but House had brushed him off with a dismissive comment, avoiding talking about it just like he did with everything else that he definitely, totally didn’t care about.
He’d told himself that the odds of getting pregnant from a one-night stand were so low, he shouldn’t even worry about it.
Apparently he’d been wrong, and now he finds himself sitting on the floor of his bathroom, pregnancy test in hand. Garish, odd things, pregnancy tests. He would've just had his blood tested - less room for error and all that - but then it'd be in the hospital records, and he does not want that, under any circumstances.
Seriously, though, how unlucky do you have to be to be a trans man nearing fifty and still get pregnant from a one time thing with your best friend? The universe’s just out to get him, or something.
____.____
He briefly considered abortion - he wouldn’t be a very good dad, and he knows it. Who wants a Vicodin-addicted cripple as a father? He certainly wouldn’t. That thought goes away fast, though. He doesn’t really like to admit it, but he does think he’d like to have a part of Wilson with him, if the news of his pregnancy doesn’t sway the oncologist's stance regarding his cancer treatment (unlikely).
There were also the health complications to think about; he’d have to stop using Vicodin for the remainder of his pregnancy to reduce the risk of birth defects or complications... Maybe he could find some other, non-harmful painkiller to use as a placebo? The pain would definitely get worse without Vicodin, but at the very least it wouldn’t be the worst it could be.
What would he tell his team? Good lord, what would he tell Foreman?
The fact that he didn’t even think to tell his mom at first is not indicative of any mother or parental-related issues at all (he lies. Everybody lies, even to themselves, why would House be the exception?).
He stands up with a quiet grunt of discomfort, his body protesting against the position he’d been sitting in for what feels like hours but, in all honesty, was probably just a few minutes longer than what the test took to show a result. Unfortunately, though, the movement makes him feel like his bones are fighting against him, and paired with what he now knows is the nausea that comes hand-in-hand with pregnancy, he thinks he’s gonna throw up.
… He does just that.
____.____
About an hour later, House finds himself sitting on the couch in his apartment, eating a bag of chips. A cup of bourbon sits untouched on the coffee table - He’d poured it out of habit, but he really shouldn’t be drinking now, should he? Bummer.
Should he call Wilson? Chase? A hooker? He needs some sort of support here.
No, not Wilson. Not yet. Maybe not ever. He's not going to burden his friend with this, especially when he's already dealing with his cancer.
…Wait.
Wait, wait, wait. He has a eureka moment, urethra, if you will.
Wilson’s always wanted kids. Ever since his first marriage fell through, he’d told House that he wanted nothing more than to be a father.
He could… tell Wilson he’s pregnant? Maybe then, he’ll agree to treatment, out of obligation for his- their child? It’s a long shot, but it can’t hurt to try. He might be upset with House for the first few months, but he’d come around. Eventually.
Besides, even if Wilson doesn’t ever forgive him and their recklessness and the subsequent consequences, he'd much prefer having Wilson be miserable and alive over dead and, well, dead.
If you were to ask House, in that moment, if he felt even the slightest bit guilty for planning to use his own child as a bargaining chip, he’d say nope, not at all. No guilt here.
But, in the deepest part of his brain, the rational, caring part that he’s tried so hard to quiet down, he does worry about this baby’s future. House blames it on hormones, but not even he believes that.
He takes a deep breath, moving a tentative hand to his stomach, testing how it feels - both physically and emotionally. Physically, he feels a slight firmness around his abdomen, almost imperceptible but still there. Mentally, psychologically, it’s… weird. There’s a person in there, sort of. More like a parasite at this stage, but it’s going to be a person. His person. He’s making a person.
He doesn’t want to do this alone, does he? He thinks about how the future could turn out, with him and Wilson and their child. He has a hard time admitting it, but he does want that. To be… domestic. With Wilson.
It's decided. He knows what he's going to do. He's going to do this, and he's going to deal with the consequences, if need be.
He reaches for the phone, and dials Wilson’s number.