Work Text:
"Fuck."
House rubbed at his leg, a slick sheen of sweat covering his entire body. He could barely breathe as the muscles in his thigh cramped and contracted, sending pain throughout.
It was four in the morning. He'd fallen asleep on Wilson's shoulder mid-infomercial a few hours back. House had known that he'd needed to go to bed, an actual bed where he could stretch out his maimed limb, but Wilson was already asleep and any jostling would've woken him up.
House was a dick, but he was capable of being nice when no one was around to witness it - wouldn't want to ruin his impeccable reputation, after all.
To add to the situation, one of Wilson's patients had died (what a buzzkill, really, looks like he wasn't getting any for the next week or so), and House, despite his gruff demeanor, knew how very painful that could be; for House, it wasn't necessarily the death of a person that got to him, no, it was an unsolved puzzle that had slipped between his fingers - crying family members were blatant proof of one of his many faults (the fact that he was human being the first on his list, and yes there was a list - House was great at despising things, especially himself).
Being human had made him vulnerable all of those years before during the infarction, and as House rubbed his leg, teeth gritting together painfully, he was reminded of his agony.
House dropped his head to his chest, kneading his leg as well as he could, trembling body pressed next to Wilson's.
If he could just stand up and walk like a normal perso-
"House?" Wilson's voice was muddled with sleep, but he was too far out of unconsciousness to be shushed back to sleep, especially with his best friend (boyfriend, too, but that was still under wraps, and the word made House's heart do funny things, so shush) quaking beside him.
House didn't answer him, looking down, eyes shielded by the dark room, the television playing shadows on his face. The older doctor looked worn, as if he'd been up for a while, struggling against his revolting body.
"Oh, House." Wilson caught sight of House's hands, desperately bracketing his atrophied thigh with those piano hands. The younger doctor sat up a bit, crossing his legs, gently rubbing House's shoulder absentmindedly.
"Look at me, House."
The older doctor ignored him, clenching his jaw, eyes wet with torment and embarrassment.
"Greg, look at me."
The taller man looked up at his best friend, eyes hesitant, face pinched with pain. Wilson smiled comfortingly, even if his heart was broken in two.
House's eyes told him that all he had wanted was sleep; something so simple had always turned into an intricate tangle of details when House was involved, and that, that was unfair.
"Good, listen, just breathe, okay? I'll go grab your heating pad-"
"Vi'din." House murmured, gasping for breath. Wilson frowned, looking around.
He'd put House's Vicodin away for the night after they'd eaten takeout for dinner (the older doctor was cutting down - on Vicodin, not food, never food - thanks to Wilson's prodding). He'd been suffering alone without his medication for what looked like hours; of course House had been too proud to even notify another human being that he might've needed help.
It wouldn't have stopped the muscle spasm from escalating, but it would've helped with the pain. House would've suffered through any amount of physical pain to avoid something as unguarded as asking for assistance.
"And your Vicodin, yes, of course, House, I'm sorry-"
"Just," House heaved out, looking angry and so very exposed as a groan interrupted his words. "Shut the fuck up."
Wilson nodded his assent, House was an ass when he was feeling okay, when in extreme pain, he turned into a monster. Of course, Wilson, as always, saw the immediate apology in his eyes; House hadn't meant to lash out, he just did, it was an animalistic reaction to a greater level of pain and the fact that he'd lost control meant that what he was feeling was beyond torture.
A charley horse times one thousand.
Wilson leapt carefully from the couch, bustling around House's (it was theirs, really, Wilson had decorated the place, he had taken three-fourths of House's closet, etc.) apartment as quickly as he could.
Meanwhile, House rocked back and forth on his good leg, putting all of his weight into the impromptu massage he'd been giving himself.
"Com'on, com'on." He whispered to his leg, begging the aching muscles to ease up.
"Hey, hey," Wilson rushed up, perching on his knees as he plugged in the heating pad, handing House two white pills; the older doctor swallowed them whole, sighing in mild relief. "Greg, you've got to relax-"
"Don't Greg me, I'm not some confused patient, Jimmy." House grunted angrily, looking frustrated again, throwing his head back against the couch. "Just-"
Help me.
"Right, I'm trying."
Doing my best.
"Let me see, Greg. Move your hands."
House let go of his leg, the muscles twitching angrily, moving like some alien force underneath his boxers. His thigh was red hot, so much so that he barely had the energy to rebuttal. Wilson started rubbing his scar tissue methodically, experienced and gentle fingers rolling over the limb.
"Don't talk," House grunted, breathing heavily, "Don't talk dirty to me, James Wilson, not until, ugh, not until you buy me dinner."
Wilson grinned, even if it didn't reach his worried eyes. He put a little more force into his ministrations, pushing all of his weight into it as he sat up a bit. House groaned in agreement, sweat dripping from his creased forehead. "Greg, I buy you lunch everyday."
"If that's what the kids are calling it these days, Jimmy." House feigned innocence, rolling his bright blue eyes, head lolling downwards to meet Wilson's brown bulbs; House's jabs weren't as sharp as usual, but his eyes spoke volumes, and Wilson had always been great at deciphering House.
I appreciate this, I appreciate you.
You're welcome, House.
Wilson had always been great at fixing Gregory House.
(The next morning House had limped all by himself to the kitchen to make Wilson breakfast, shoving it under the sleeping man's nose, a swift whack of the infamous cane rearing down on the younger doctor's blanket clad body; House's version of a sweet wake up call. Wilson hadn't even flinched as he opened bleary eyes, the older doctor's blue eyes sending all of the words he wouldn't say:
Thank you.
Wilson had snatched a few bacon strips before he'd even taken the plate in hand, staring down the older doctor from his position on their bed as he shrugged once.
You're welcome.
Wilson had shifted into a sitting position, patting a spot next to him, their thighs touching as the two sat down. House stole some of his hash browns with a thin finger, bringing it to his lips and sucking the digit obnoxiously.
Wilson could only sigh fondly as House rubbed that same greasy finger on his shoulder before slumping over onto the younger doctor, head pillowed on his arm; Wilson kissed his temple, the older man's face twitching contentedly.
I love you too, House.)