Chapter Text
Wilson examines the x-ray of House’s hand carefully, squinting to make out the details of each bone. Then he sighs, turning to fix his friend with his best you’re-an-idiot glare.
“This looks broken, House,” he grouses. “What did you do?”
In response to his stern look, House puts on his who, me? face, which is infuriatingly endearing. Not that he’s going to admit it, though.
Also, the effect is significantly dampened by the fact that House just looks like shit, with heavy eyebags and a vampire-like complexion; it’s a wonder he’s even functioning at this point.
“Accidentally closed the car door on it.”
Well that’s definitely a lie, which means there’s something deeper going on here.
“Uh-huh. A car door would’ve broken the skin,” he argues, gently picking up House’s hand and cradling it in his own as he inspects the damage. “This looks like something hard and smooth smashed it.”
“I’ll smash you with something hard and smooth,” House mutters under his breath, because of course he has to get his daily gay-sex-joke quota in. Wilson decides not to dignify that with a response; instead, he continues his lecture.
“The brain has a gating mechanism for pain. It registers the most severe injury and blocks out the rest. Did it work?”
House snatches his hand back and cranks up his scowl-factor to ten, which would have been soul-destroying to anyone else. Luckily, Wilson is more than used to it by now, so he’s largely unbothered.
“Well, my hand hurts like hell,” he snaps, but quickly dials it back into something a little softer at Wilson’s unimpressed eyebrow raise. He glances away, wary.
“Yeah. Much better.”
Wilson nods, satisfied with the answer. He turns to grab the supplies he’ll need to bandage him up, when House speaks up again.
“Don’t splint it. I want to be able to bang it against the wall if I need to administer another dose. Just tape it up.”
That gives him pause for a moment, but he decides not to argue. Not right now, anyway; he still feels kinda bad about suggesting the Vicodin detox in the first place.
Turning back around, he settles himself onto a stool in front of House, almost startling when he registers the proximity. From this angle, he can see the individual lines in his pupils, smell the faint scent of his cologne; he swallows, suddenly feeling quite nervous for no good reason. Then House quirks an eyebrow, a small smirk forming on his face.
Shit, he thinks, a little deliriously. Am I staring?
“Why, Wilson,” House leers, pain forgotten momentarily as he leans in a little closer. Wilson feels his mouth go dry. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were coming on to me, looking at me like that.”
Shit shit shit shit SHIT, his brain supplies helpfully, overwhelmed by how close they are. Thanks, brain. Luckily, he manages to kick himself back into gear before the awkward silence can go on for too long.
“I’m not gay,” he insists hurriedly, before shaking his head. Too defensive, tone it down a little. “Just thinking about how much of an idiot you are.”
He hastily busies himself with bandaging House’s injury, not meeting his eye. House hums disbelievingly at him, but pulls back a little, soon distracted when Wilson brushes against his sore knuckles.
“Sorry,” he mumbles absentmindedly, mind racing as he processes that whole interaction, because that- that was weird, even for them.
Because Wilson isn’t gay. He knows this, he’s on his third wife, for fuck’s sake, surely no gay man would put themselves through that. Surely he would have realised by now, if he were.
Maybe you’re just really, really repressed, a part of his subconscious that sounds suspiciously like House taunts. A brief memory of his time in junior high flashes through his mind - and he abandons that train of thought very swiftly. Nope, not getting into that today, or ever, preferably, thank you very much.
No, this was just a silly awkward moment between two perfectly straight men. They’ll be laughing about it over beers and shitty TV in no time. Totally.
He barely notices that he’s finished with the bandages, startled out of his thoughts when he find himself empty-handed. Wilson gives House’s newly-wrapped hand a little pat, careful to avoid the damaged area.
“There,” he says after a moment, risking a glance up at House’s face. There’s something unplaceable in his eyes, head tilted on one side like a dog waiting for a treat. He locks eyes with Wilson, the corner of his mouth twitching up just a little.
Ah, he’s definitely got some silly quip lined up. Probably at Wilson’s expense.
"It still hurts though, Wilson," he whines pathetically, putting on an exaggerated pout. "Won't you pretty please kiss it better?"
He's teasing him, Wilson knows. House is expecting him to come up with a stupid witty retort, they'll have a laugh, everything will be normal.
To his surprise, the idea of that... it feels weird.
Whatever strange, fleeting feeling he'd had just a few short minutes ago, despite his initial panic… he liked it. That delightful crawling sensation under his skin, the warm prickle in his cheeks at that icy gaze - it was nice. Peaceful, almost. He hasn’t felt like that in a very long time.
So before he can talk himself out of it, he gathers House's injured hand in one of his, caressing it close like something precious - before slowly, slowly pressing his lips to the top of it, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on House's.
And what a sight he is, mouth parted in surprise and something akin to trepidation in his gaze. There’s even the hint of a blush high on his cheeks; without thinking, Wilson cups his other hand against his face, the pad of his thumb stroking gently over his cheekbone. Why has he never done this before? How has he not noticed the attractive line of his jaw, the delightful roughness of his ever-present stubble, the fullness of his lips?
House looks conflicted, then, as if he’s having some sort of internal debate. Then, very carefully, he leans into Wilson’s touch, eyes wide. A confused, almost disbelieving little hum escapes his throat, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. He clearly hadn’t expected to get this far when he made his joke, and now he’s probably doubting Wilson’s earlier statement of not being gay. He’s starting to doubt it himself, actually.
Oh well.
Normally, Wilson would be preening at the mere suggestion of pulling one over on his enigmatic, quick-thinking friend. Instead, he holds his breath, afraid that if he speaks the delicate moment would be broken.
He just takes in the sight of House, loose and pliant and beautiful despite the pain he’s in - the glazed look in his eyes, the way his mouth drops open, the way he presses his nose into Wilson’s palm. The way he digs his teeth into Wilson’s skin.
“Ow!” he yelps, quickly withdrawing his hand as the tender mood vanishes without a trace. “What the hell was that for?”
House, to his credit, looks just as surprised as Wilson - a little apologetic too, which is as unfamiliar as it is heartwarming. It’s as if he hadn't even meant to do it; some strange, subconscious response to receiving affection (which would make a lot of sense, actually, thinking about it).
Before either of them can even think about speaking, though, Cuddy storms in, looking rather pissed as she starts berating House for- something or other, he doesn’t really care. Wilson is far too preoccupied, taking the opportunity to slip out of the door unnoticed. He just wants to get back to his office to have a nice, long, middle-aged sexuality crisis.
Such are the woes of being friends with House.