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The rain had started sometime between clinic hours and sunset, it started out quiet at first, a soft mist that blurred the parking lot lights, and made everything hazy. By the time Wilson finally left the hospital, hours after his shift originally ended it had turned into a steady, soaking downpour, everything was wet, and the parking lot had vague flooding.
He didn’t have an umbrella.
He did have a coat. Sort of, It was draped over the back of his chair earlier this morning when the weather was warmer, but now it laid on that same chair forgotten in favor of rushing out after a last-minute consult, sleeves still slightly wrinkled from being sat on all day. By the time he realized, he was already halfway across the lot, shoes splashing through shallow uneven puddles already beginning to form inside the many potholes all around.
Wilson paused, squinting up at the sky with a small glare like it might apologize.
It didn’t.
He let out a breath, adjusted the strap of his bag that kept digging into his shoulder, and kept walking.
By the next morning, he felt like hell, and blamed it all on the rain.
Wilson woke slowly that morning, body feeling heavy and mind disoriented, the kind of wake-up where your body feels gross and wrong. His head throbbed, headache quick to form. His throat felt scratchy, like he'd swallowed sandpaper sometime during the night or ate some actually sand. When he shifted, a chill ran through him despite the warmth of his blankets, and the warm 68 degrees he kept his apartment everyday.
He frowned into his pillow.
“…Great.”
Calling out sick would’ve been the responsible thing. The good thing–The adult thing. The thing he would advise any of his patients or colleagues to do.
So like clockwork, he got dressed and went to work.
House noticed within approximately a minute of him getting there after Wilson.
Not that he said anything right away, no that would be too kind.
Wilson drifted into the office with a quiet exhaustion shown all over his face; his movements just a little slower than usual, shoulders slightly hunched, hands shaking. His hair was still damp at the ends, like he hadn’t fully dried or blow dried it, and he looked there was no polite way to put it soft. Not in a flattering way. In a fragile way.
House leaned back in his chair, fidgeting with a pen between his fingers, his eyes narrowing just slightly, barely noticeable to anyone but Wilson.
“Wow,” he said after a beat of silence. “You look terrible.”
Wilson blinked at him, his response delayed. “…Good morning to you too.”
“Morning. What happened? Did you finally lose a fight with your own self esteem?"
“I’m fine,” Wilson said automatically, dropping into the chair across from House. He rubbed at his eyes briefly then squinted; like the light was too bright for him. “Just didn’t sleep well.”
“Mm.” House’s gaze flicked over him again—taking in the faint flush to his cheeks, the way he kept swallowing with a grimace, the subtle hitch in his breathing. “Let me guess. You stood dramatically in the rain, contemplating your life choices.”
Wilson gave him a confused look. “I walked to my car.”
“In the rain.”
“It’s called weather, House. People experience it sometimes.”
“Not voluntarily.”
Wilson opened his mouth to argue, then paused. For a second, he just… sat there. Like he’d forgotten what he was going to say, which he did, but he would never admit that to House.
House’s facial expression didn’t change a bit, but something sharpened behind his eyes, calculating, then once he found his answer his whole face softened.
“…You’re sick,” he deemed flatly, trying to hide the worry in his voice.
“I’m not—” Wilson stopped mid sentence, coughed into his arm, winced slightly, pain showing on his face then spoke once again. “…I’m fine.”
“Right. And I’m a people person.”
Wilson sighed, leaning back in the nice comfortable chair, suddenly feeling tired, his body feeling weighed down. “It’s just a cold. I’ll be okay.”
“You’re already not okay,” House replied. “You look like a Victorian child about to be carried off to the graves.”
“That’s not even medically accurate"
“Go home.”
Wilson blinked at him, eyes widening slightly, dumbfounded. “What?”
“I said go home,” House repeated, like it was obvious. “You’re useless like this.”
“I am not”
“You just forgot what you were saying mid-sentence.”
“I–” Wilson paused again, his face falling flat. “…I didn’t forget.”
“You absolutely did.”
Wilson stared at him for a moment, then looked away, a little sheepish. “…Okay, maybe I'm a little sick.”
“Groundbreaking.”
“I still have patients House”
“I’ll tell Cuddy you died tragically, big funeral" House popped a vidican after that. “Very sad. Lots of tears were shed. Minimal paperwork for me.”
Wilson coughed out a small weak laugh despite himself, then rubbed at his red face again. He looked… smaller, somehow. Like the sharp edges of him had softened, and he was left vulnerable.
“I can’t just leave,” he murmured, voice quieter now, almost a whisper.
House watched him for a second, almost analyzing him, but something that looked undeniably like care flickered across his face.
Then he stood up.
Wilson blinked again. “What are you doing?”
“Kidnapping you,” House said sarcasm full in his voice, grabbing his cane. “Try not to struggle. It’ll make it less embarrassing for both of us.”
“House…”
“Up.”
There was something in his tone that was sharp, but it wasn’t House’s normal tone, it was surprisingly full of warmth, it was the kind of tone that made Wilson hesitate before he did anything. He looked at him, clearly trying to form an argument against this, why he should stay… and then he didn’t say anything.
“…Okay,” he said instead, almost absently.
House stilled for half a second.
Wilson pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly before steadying. He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn’t care anymore.
“Good,” House said briskly, already turning toward the door. “Let’s go before you infect the entire oncology department with your poor life decisions."
The drive to Wilson’s apartment was quiet.
Not tense just… quiet, it wasn’t uncomfortable, just unusual for the two.
Wilson sat in the passenger seat, his head had tipped slowly toward the window, watching the rain fall peacefully down the glass car window. At some point, he found peace in sleep and his eyes drifted closed.
House noticed the second he fell asleep.
Of course he did, he always noticed everything.
He didn’t say anything.
Getting Wilson inside the car was easier than expected, getting him in the apartment though? It was still too easy.
Way too easy.
Normally, there would’ve been at least some protest, some insistence that he was fine, that this was unnecessary, that House was being ridiculous, and he could go back to work after an hour of being home to take a “break”.
Instead, Wilson just let himself be guided inside, toed off his shoes with minimal coordination, and hovered uncertainly in the middle of his living room, like he didn’t know what to do without direction.
“…Now what?” he asked, voice quieter than usual, softer too.
House set his cane against the wall, eyeing him.
“You sit,” he said, pointing at the couch.
Wilson obeyed immediately, sinking down into the cushions with a soft exhale, shoulders that were tense just moments before relaxed.
House frowned.
That wasn’t right.
Wilson didn’t obey.
Not like that.
He filed it away for later, irritation prickling under his skin because this wasn’t just a cold. This was Wilson running on autopilot, stripped down to something different, softer, less guarded.
It was… unsettling.
“…Stay,” House added, almost as an afterthought, like he didn’t trust Wilson not to follow after him.
Wilson nodded, already curling slightly into the corner of the couch, face blank.
House disappeared into the kitchen.
He came back with a glass of water and a bottle of acetaminophen.
Wilson was exactly where he’d left him, though he’d shifted enough to tuck his feet up under himself, leaning against the armrest. He looked… tired. More than tired. The kind of tiredness that was bone deep, from years of ignoring it, maybe he and Wilson were more similar than he thought.
“Here,” House said, handing him the two pills.
Wilson took them without question, swallowing them with a small grimace on his face.
“Good,” House muttered. “Basic motor functions still intact.” He said dryly.
Wilson huffed faintly, but there was no bite to it.
House hesitated, then grabbed a blanket from the back of a nearby chair and tossed it at him.
Wilson blinked down at it like it had appeared out of nowhere, like he was trying to catch up with a thought that already ran away.
“…Oh.”
He pulled it around himself slowly, almost carefully, like he was afraid it might disappear.
House looked away, it felt wrong to see Wilson like this.
“This doesn’t leave the room,” he said.
“Mm,” Wilson hummed, already settling deeper into the couch, melting into it.
There was a long pause.
Then, a softer voice than he ever heard from Wilson responded “Thanks.”
House rolled his eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”
Wilson didn’t answer.
When House glanced back, he realized why.
Wilson had fallen asleep.
House stayed staring longer than he meant to.
He told himself it was because he needed to make sure Wilson didn’t spike a fever so he had to be close. Or choke on his own mucus. Or do something equally inconvenient.
He definitely didn’t stay because Wilson looked… wrong when he was like this. Smaller. Unprotected. Like if House left, something might… happen.
That would be ridiculous.
Still, he stayed.
At some point, Wilson shifted in his sleep, curling tighter into the blanket, brow furrowing faintly. A soft, almost inaudible sound escaped him, something caught between a sigh and a whine.
House’s grip tightened on his cane.
“…Idiot,” he muttered.
He moved before he could think better of it, grabbing another blanket and draped it more securely over him. His hand lingered for a fraction of a second at Wilson’s shoulder longer than acceptable, just long enough to feel the warmth there.
Too warm.
“Great,” House muttered. “Fever.”
Wilson stirred slightly at the contact, leaning just a little into the touch before settling into sleep again.
House froze.
For a moment, something dangerously close to love flickered across his face.
Then it was gone.
He straightened, clearing his throat.
“I’m not your nurse,” he said to the sleeping form, voice quieter than usual, lacking its bite. “Or your father. Or whatever this is.”
Wilson didn’t respond, but his facial expression said it all.
Even though he's mostly asleep, faint hurt crept onto his face.
House felt guilty for the first time in a while because of the hurt on Wilson’s face, he lingered there anyway.
Just for a minute, just simply staring at him.
Waiting until the rain softened outside, and Wilson’s breathing evened out, and the apartment felt… steady.
Then he grabbed his cane, turned, and left pausing only long enough to switch off the light.
He didn’t look back, he couldn’t if he did he would have gotten too close, would have stayed.
That would be too dangerous, but he wanted to stay so bad, he wanted to take Wilson into his arms and just stay there in comfort.
he looked back anyways.