Chapter Text
The steady beat of a heart monitor told House that he was in a hospital. The cannula in his nose and hissing oxygen told him that he was the patient. The aching pain in his gut told him that his dream of being shot wasn’t a dream. The pressure on his right hand told him that someone held it.
Who would hold his hand? Not even his mother would do something like that. She knew how much he hated to be touched. The only people who could touch him were Stacy and Wilson. Stacy was gone and Wilson wouldn’t hold his hand, so that left… Cameron? Cuddy? He had no idea.
He glanced over and saw a mop of brown hair. Familiar brown hair.
Wilson was sleeping, his head resting on his arms on House’s hospital bed, one hand clutching his. Wilson’s hair was greasy, something House had only ever seen when he was depressed after his marriages broke up and taking a week off to mope. Even on the worst of days, when he lost three patients in a row, all of them children, Wilson managed to have nice hair.
House resisted the urge to touch Wilson’s hair by reaching for his own face with his free hand. His stubble could only be a day or two old. He could have sworn he’d been on Day Four when he’d been shot.
“They shaved you yesterday,” Wilson said, yawning as he sat up. He didn’t let go of House’s hand, and House felt surprisingly pleased by that. “I asked them to do a full Brazilian, but… You know nurses…” He trailed off, his eyes sparkling. House thought he saw water pool at the edges of his eyes and decided he had to do something about that. Quickly. It was bad enough when women cried, but when Wilson cried he didn’t know what to do with himself on a much grander scale. And when he felt that out of control, he got sarcastic and nasty, and that wouldn’t do either of them any good.
“They never listen,” House finished blandly. He looked away from Wilson to assess the room. He didn’t immediately see any important details and turned his attention back to his friend. “How long have you been here?”
Wilson let go of House’s hand just long enough to rub the back of his neck and stretch, then claimed it again. He didn’t seem aware he was doing it. “Well, Cuddy gave me three days, and then it was the weekend, but when Monday came around I couldn’t concentrate and my assistant called Brown who told me to go home or stay down here and stop scaring the children, so…” He paused, counting in his head. “Nine or ten days, I think. I lost count after the first week.”
House took a moment to take in the information. Wilson used the time to check his pupils and do a basic exam. One of the nurses happened to come in and change his IV fluids. House closed his eyes, unable to maintain the glare that he wanted to show her for her interruption. Better to be drowsy than lose his reputation.
“Could you…?” Wilson asked, miming closing the curtains. She sighed, rolled her eyes, and left, pulling the curtains around the bed as she did so.
“I’ve been out that whole time?” House asked when he was sure they were alone. Wilson nodded. “How long have you been holding my hand?” House asked, allowing a bit of playful flirtation into his voice. He liked flirting with Wilson, especially when it made Wilson flustered and blush. “You know how nurses gossip. That rumor about us will be alive and well by lunchtime.”
Wilson, who’d taken his hand again after motioning to the nurse, dropped it like it was on fire and got to his feet. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know I was doing it. I’ll — um — I’ll go…”
“James,” House said softly, trying to forestall his precipitous exit. Wilson stopped halfway to the door. He glanced back at House.
“You never call me that,” Wilson said softly.
House shrugged. Maybe almost dying was an opportunity? he thought. He doubted there would be a better time. He held up his hand. He twitched his fingers invitingly. Slowly, warily, as if he expected House to do something crazy or impulsive or both, Wilson sidled back to House’s bedside and took his hand. House squeezed it to get his attention, then met his eyes. “I wouldn’t be adverse to the idea,” he said, keeping his voice low and serious.
“Wha— What idea?” Wilson stuttered.
House let his lips turn up slightly at the edges, and while maintaining eye contact with Wilson, he rubbed the back of his hand with his thumb. There would be no way for Wilson to misinterpret the intimacy of the gesture, or the meaning behind the simple touch. Wilson’s hand squeezed his convulsively tight and a flush crawled its way up his neck, across his cheeks, and over his ears, turning the tips a bright pink.
“House, I —“
A perfunctory knock on the glass walls of the room gave them enough time to drop each other’s hands before Cuddy pushed the privacy curtain open. Wilson closed his eyes and let out a deep breath, slumping back into the seat he’d been occupying.
“The nurses said you were awake,” Cuddy said without preamble. She glanced at House’s vitals, then at Wilson. “He’s fine, James. Go home.”
“But —“
“That’s right, James, rest those weary butt cheeks of yours,” House snarled with the expected amount of nastiness in his voice. It took more energy than he expected and he needed a moment to finish his thought. He wondered if Wilson noticed.
“Oh, wait, that’s what you’ve been doing! Go home and stop watching me rot away,” he added, hoping Wilson would pick up on his annoyance at being interrupted rather than tell himself that House was angry with him. He turned to Cuddy. “Now that I’m a patient, I get cable, right? Which pay-per-view stations do we have? Can I get ‘Sam the Swinger visits Tranny Town?’ It really appeals to the masses, you know. A little bit of everything for everyone.”
“That’s disgusting,” she answered. “And, no.”
House turned to Wilson and gave him a full grin, complete with batted eyelashes. “TiVo it for a bro, Wilson?”
Wilson had lost the flush of before and now looked like he was moving from embarrassment to indignation. “I have better things to do than supply you with bad porn,” he barked.
“I highly doubt that,” House answered. “But, go.” He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Go find the cure for cancer, or something. Daddy’s got a date with —“
“You repulse me,” Cuddy interrupted. House winced at her sharp tone. Wilson's head snapped around. “How’s the pain?” she continued in a more gentle voice before either of them could call her out.
“Achey,” House answered. “But I’m guessing you kept me under to get through the worst of it.”
“Yes.”
“Did you give me the ketamine?”
Cuddy paused. “Yes.”
House threw off his blanket and started trying to get out of bed, excited to see if the treatment worked as well in real life as it had in his dream/hallucination.
“Woah, slow down!” Cuddy said, rushing forward to stop him. From the other direction, Wilson’s urgent cry and hands on his shoulders told him that something was wrong. “We don’t know if it worked,” Cuddy said when House stopped struggling to get out of bed. Wilson’s hands remained on his shoulders, grounding him in a way touch never had before. He decided he liked being touched by Wilson.
“The way to find out is for me to walk!” House declared. He brushed off Wilson’s hands and got to his feet. He sat down immediately, feeling dizzy.
“House? Is it the pain?” Wilson asked, concerned.
“Just dizzy,” he said, feeling the room begin to spin. “I think I’m gonna —“
“Faint,” Wilson finished for the unconscious House. He helped Cuddy get him back into bed. He looked up at her. “He’s not ready for this,” he said.
“It’s a 50:50 chance,” she replied. “How he knew about it, I still haven’t figured out, but —“
“We can’t push him too hard. He almost died!”
“I know, but he didn’t. And he’s going to be fine, so you should get some rest. I’ll have one of his fellows sit with him until you get back.”
“What if —“
“I’ll make sure they put you on speed dial.”
Wilson sighed and took a final look at House’s sleeping form. “I’m glad he’s mostly himself,” he said softly as they left the room.
“He’ll be fine,” she reassured him again. “He’s made it through the hardest part. Now he’ll need you to be his rock to push against, and you can’t do that if you’re falling asleep on your feet.”
With a weary exhalation, Wilson went to call a taxi. He was far too tired to drive, and he’d be no good to House if he crashed his car getting home. He thought about House’s words, and his flirty smile, and the affection in his eyes.
“I wouldn’t be adverse to the idea,” House had said. Not that he wanted it, or was looking for it, but that he might not mind if it happened? What did that mean? Did that mean that he actually wanted it, but couldn’t say because he was House?
Wilson resigned himself to living with ambiguity for a little while. He couldn’t talk to House about it without getting mocked. He couldn’t admit that he’d spent ten days out of his mind, worrying about House and whether or not he’d live, or wake up, or be brain damaged. He couldn’t tell him that he’d held his hand for almost all of those ten days, and that Cuddy and House’s fellows hadn’t batted an eye to see it, nor had many of the other staff. Cameron had even put a hand on his shoulder as a gesture of comfort one evening. He’d met her eyes and saw understanding and acceptance. She’d ceded her place as the one who cared about House the most.
Not that she’d ever had that place. He was the one House turned to, and had been turning to for fifteen years. It wasn’t going to change because a pretty girl smiled in House’s direction. It hadn’t changed with Stacy. Much.
His phone rang.
“Bring food when you come back!” House demanded when he answered, not bothering with a hello. In the background he could hear the buzz of conversations. “The food here sucks.” He hung up.
Wilson found himself smiling. House was still House, but…
He’d asked for something, in his Houseian way. Maybe he’d be willing to lean on Wilson more than he used to be? Maybe Wilson just had to show him that it was ok? That their friendship wouldn’t break? That maybe, just maybe, they could be more than friends?
.
.
.