Chapter Text
“What kind of army are you going to be feeding with all this food?”
House has just walked into his own apartment, only to find that his best friend has apparently lapsed into some kind of post-divorce psychosis. That’s how it appears anyway, with the amount of food he’s preparing- every hob on the stove is occupied by a saucepan, there are dishes in the sink, and there are several containers of food on the island, steam rising out of them. It smells good, he has to give him that, but in the past few weeks Wilson has been living with him, he has never done anything like this. Ergo, it seems worrisome.
Wilson smiles at him serenely, his cheeks a little flushed. He’s changed out of his work outfit into a more casual polo, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and he’s wearing an apron House didn’t even know he had. It looks ridiculous- he’d jump right into making fun of him for it, but first he has to crack this mystery.
“Not an army,” Wilson replies cheerfully, busily mincing some kind of herbs with a knife. “Just the two of us.”
House’s brows knit together as his concern for his friend’s wellbeing only grows. “We’re both big and strong alphas, sure, but I think this is a bit overkill,” he states, stepping further into the kitchen. “A lot overkill, I think.”
Wilson collects the chopped herbs onto the blade of the knife, using his other hand to cup them, and he drops it all into one of the saucepans. “This is called meal prep,” he says patiently, as he grabs a wooden spoon to stir the herbs in. “I’ll pop some of this into the freezer, don’t worry.”
“Meal prep for what, exactly?” House steps up to the island to look at the containers more closely. The dishes look suspiciously healthy, which greatly displeases him. “Do you think all the grocery stores in New Jersey will be closed for the next three weeks?”
Wilson turns around and rolls his eyes. “This way, we don’t have to order Chinese takeout every night,” he explains, gesturing at the containers, his right hand resting on his hip. “So we have an easy and healthy meal ready at all times, no matter how late we have to work or how tired we are.”
“That is…” House really has to search for the correct word to convey his apprehension. “A very complicated way of saying that you have fallen right into a midlife crisis,” he settles for, shaking his head. “Julie wasn’t having an affair because you’ve put on a couple of pounds, I assure you. It was because you were emotionally unavailable, and continuously angling at having an affair yourself.”
There’s a flash of something in Wilson’s eyes- House knows he’s hit him where it hurts, but Wilson knows better than to linger in it. “It’s not about that,” he insists, as he begins to lay out even more containers. “Making good choices for your health isn’t all about weight, and I’m not trying to prove anything to anybody. I just think we need to take better care of ourselves.”
“Speak for yourself,” House scoffs, as he sidesteps around Wilson to grab a bottle of scotch from the cabinet. “I have no such inclination.”
The look Wilson levels him with is nothing short of long-suffering. “I’m honestly surprised you don’t have scurvy, rickets, or even anemia,” he says. He grabs one of the saucepans and begins to ladle the contents into the containers. He looks surprisingly at ease working in the kitchen like this, House muses, as he pours himself a generous amount of scotch. “You eat basically no vegetables or fruit. How can a grown man sustain himself on just fries, red meat, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?”
“I do occasionally eat my fries with ketchup,” House sniffs indignantly, and bumps his shoulder against Wilson’s as he shuffles past him to leave the kitchen. “That counts- and fries count as a vegetable, too, at least in some states. It says so in their nutritional requirements for school lunches. And besides, if fries are so bad for you, why does the hospital cafeteria serve them?”
Wilson clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Well, school lunches be damned, you could still stand to eat more healthily,” he insists, brandishing his ladle at House. “I’ve just tried my best to make it easy for you. You can think of all of this food as mine, if that makes it easier. I know how much you like stealing my meals.”
That is a perfectly valid logic, but House would never admit that. “Why do you even care?” he asks instead. His leg is smarting after a long day of perusing the hospital hallways to avoid Cuddy at all costs, and he really wants to go sit down on the couch. Kick his feet up, watch some sports, drink his scotch. “I’m a grown alpha. I’ve made it this far.”
Wilson looks up from where he’s begun to put lids on the containers, his eyes depthless, warm. “Caring is what I do best,” he settles for, before he directs his eyes back down again so he can see what he’s doing. “I didn’t realize how dire your situation was, before I moved in.”
House shakes his head, and turns around to limp into the living room. He really needs to get off his feet. “Fine,” he relents, talking to Wilson over his shoulder. “Cook to your heart’s content, if it makes you feel better. But if it’s not tasty, you can bet your ass that I’m just gonna keep eating my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”
“Wouldn’t expect anything else,” Wilson replies without missing a beat, and House settles on the couch with a smile tugging at his lips. The couch smells faintly of Wilson now, after weeks of him sleeping on it; he insists that he’s apartment hunting, but House figures that Wilson is just holding back from making the divorce official by moving into an apartment all by himself. That’s fine by House- sure, Wilson is by no means the perfect roommate and with two alphas in a small space like this, it sometimes rubs them both the wrong way, but it’s not so bad.
It’s actually rather nice to not always be alone.
House turns on the TV, and settles further into the couch cushions. Wilson is still puttering around in the kitchen, portioning out food, and then he starts on the dishes. House can hear him humming a song under his breath, too. House grabs the remote and turns on the TV to officially shut his brain off. It was an exhausting day, though he did succeed in diagnosing the patient with sarcoidosis in the end.
“Do you want to have some beef stew for dinner, or should I put everything in the fridge?” Wilson calls out from the kitchen over the sound of silverware clanking around in the sink. “I doubt you ate anything at the hospital, and scotch has terrible nutritional value.”
House scowls in Wilson’s direction, although the man can’t see him. It’s the principle that counts. “Seriously, what has gotten into you?” he asks. “With all this nagging, I expect you to complete the housewife act by putting out, too!”
He can hear something take a dive into the sink, and with the way the water sloshes, it sounds like it wasn’t on purpose. “Do you want the stew or not?” Wilson replies, irritation palpable in his voice. That is slightly unexpected- he’s usually much better at taking House’s snide remarks.
House weighs his options, but the prospect of food makes his stomach grumble. Wilson is right, his last meal was a cold ruben he snuck into the morgue to eat, and that was many hours ago. As much as he’d like to continue being a contrarian, he’s also highly pragmatic- especially when it comes to food.
“Sure, let’s see how well your ima taught you,” he replies, trying to sound at least a little more earnest.
And it turns out that Wilson’s mom taught him well- or perhaps Julia Child did. Regardless, the beef stew is excellent, and House does a poor job of hiding how much he enjoys the hearty meal, if the proud look in Wilson’s sparkling eyes is anything to go by. It’s both annoying and adorable to watch him practically preen over his culinary accomplishment.
House goes to bed with a full stomach and pleasantly numb on Vicodin and scotch, only to be awakened at 3.30am by his pager screaming at him violently on the bedside table. Blearily, House turns on the reading light to see- his patient has coded, and his kidney function is down the drain, apparently. So, it isn’t sarcoidosis, House thinks, as he reaches for his jeans to pull them on.
He makes it out of the apartment without turning on the lights, conscious of Wilson’s sleeping form on the couch, and drives his bike to the hospital as fast as he can.
The next few hours go by in a storm of furiously trying to diagnose the patient before more of his organs fail. House, as well as his fellows, are all running on little sleep, but at least it’s a familiar routine; delirious as they all are, between the four of them no lethally stupid ideas slip through the cracks. House paces around the office while he sends the ducklings to run tests, try treatments, grill the patient’s spouse for more details on the family history.
When 8am arrives, sunshine flooding the office, House is on his fifth cup of coffee. Chase is slouched over in his chair, head in his hands, and House isn’t quite sure that he’s actually awake; Cameron is typing away on the laptop, looking up obscure studies; Foreman has his fingers steepled together, the laser beam of his gaze focused on the whiteboard like it could reveal the secrets of the entire universe at any time.
House’s head throbs painfully. He reaches into his jacket pocket to wrap his fingers around his bottle of Vicodin- he’s almost out. He’ll have to make a trip down to the pharmacy, he thinks idly.
The door to the outer office being pushed open pulls him back to reality, though he’s a little surprised to see Wilson standing there. He’s dressed as impeccably as always, though he must have not made it to his office yet, for he doesn’t have his lab coat on. In his arms, he’s carrying two paper bags, as well as his briefcase.
The fellows manage only lackluster greetings, too deep in thought and bone deep exhaustion. House quirks an eyebrow at him. “I’m pretty sure this isn’t cancer, so I don’t need a consult,” he says, gesturing at the whiteboard and his own scribbles on it. “But I’ll be sure to get you the participation trophy.”
Wilson isn’t in the least bit perturbed by his snippiness. “I know you guys have been here almost all night,” he says, approaching the table and setting down one of the paper bags. “So I got you guys breakfast. And I brought you your lunch, House, since you didn’t grab any on your way out. I’ll take it to the fridge in the doctors’ lounge.”
That makes even the knackered fellows perk up. Chase grabs the bag and begins to hand out the breakfast sandwiches, as well as the fruit cups. Fruit cups. House is going to explode.
“Thank you so much,” Cameron says, always overly earnest, gazing up at Wilson like he’s done something truly heroic. “You’re too kind.” Foreman and Chase mutter their thanks as well, already tearing into the sandwiches.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Wilson insists with a flap of his hand. He seems so pleased with himself. He turns to give House a wide smile. “There’s a sandwich with your name on it, too,” he says. “And I know you’re not huge on fruit, but I remember you said something about liking pineapple, so I got you that. And oh-”
He reaches into his pocket, and rounds the table to walk to House. House is half expecting even more offending food items, perhaps a stalk of celery or a peeled carrot, but to his surprise, when Wilson holds out his hand, there’s only a bottle of Vicodin resting on his palm.
“You were running low last night,” Wilson offers as an explanation at House’s quizzical stare. “I’ve been your prescribing doctor for years now, it wasn’t that hard to do the math.”
“Thanks,” House says slowly, as he accepts the bottle and slips it into his pocket. “How very… thoughtful of you.”
Wilson laughs, and spins around on his heels. “Your lunch will be in the fridge, and it has my name on the container, so you can imagine you’re stealing it from me,” he quips, before he leaves, taking confident strides as he disappears around the corner.
“What have you done to that poor guy?” Foreman asks, shaking his head, in between bites of the sandwich. “Did he lose a bet or something?”
“Like Wilson needs a reason to do nice things,” Cameron is quick to defend him. “He’s a kind and thoughtful alpha.”
“Right,” Chase drawls, cracking open the lid of one of the cups. “Alphas especially are well known to be selflessly nice.”
“Spoken like a true omega who has had his heart broken one too many times,” House interrupts the psych eval of his best friend’s admittedly odd behavior. “But then again, I guess your colleagues can commiserate with you on that, even if they’re betas.”
Foreman rolls his eyes. “I’m gonna go and check on the patient,” he says with a huff, shoving the last of his sandwich into his mouth.
“Aw, and here I was trying to give you guys a chance to bond over your bad dating choices,” House says with as much dramatic flair as he can muster. “It’s not like I was gonna disagree with you if you’d started to trash alphas!” But Foreman is already gone, and Cameron and Chase get up from their chairs as well.
“And why exactly would you have agreed with us?” Chase asks. “Do you have experience having your heart broken by an alpha?”
“God, no,” House says with a bristle. “Most of them can’t even stand talking to me for more than five minutes. If I was a hopeless romantic, maybe that would be enough time to get my fragile little heart hurt-”
“Wilson tolerates you quite well,” Cameron points out, delicately folding the sandwich wrapper before throwing it in the trash.
“Yeah, but he’s my best friend,” House says slowly, like Cameron is particularly dense. “That’s kind of different. And Wilson is a bad specimen, the guy has some serious issues going on that the DSM-5 has yet to describe for us.”
Cameron shrugs. “Yeah, well, I don’t believe in putting people or relationships into boxes like that,” she says earnestly, as if that isn’t naive as hell, and she walks out with Chase following hot on her heels.
House will have to mock her for that statement later. First, he has to figure out what’s wrong with their patient.
His stomach gurgles and rumbles, and so he grabs a sandwich from the bag. Since the poor little bastard went through the trouble of getting these, House might as well enjoy it, right?
By that evening, their patient is at least stable- but they have no idea why, which isn’t great. The ducklings play rock paper scissors to determine who gets to spend the night monitoring the patient, while House buries himself in the patient’s files in his office.
He’s settling in for a long night, when his train of thought is interrupted by Wilson waltzing into his office. He’s wearing his jacket, and he has his briefcase in hand, so it’s clear he’s heading out. House acknowledges him with a look over the rim of his reading glasses.
“Are you coming home for the night?” Wilson asks casually, his free hand sliding into his pants pocket and jiggling the keys. His eyes are keen, as he holds House’s gaze, his expression open- so it’s just a genuine question, then. House shrugs.
“I’m just trying to figure out what we did to make the patient better,” he says, gesturing at the textbooks he has open on his desk. “I’m running out of ideas and I need to diagnose him before he decides to expire.”
Wilson nods in understanding. “Did you enjoy your lunch?” he asks next.
House’s eyebrows aim to meet his hairline. “What- I’m just curious if you liked my cooking, is all! You know I’m vain like that,” Wilson, sensing House’s apprehension, is quick to defend himself.
House clicks his tongue, shrugs his shoulders. “I mean, it was edible,” he settles for. Honestly, he doesn’t even remember eating it- things had been so hectic, that he had just shoveled the food into his mouth before running off again. “So, uh, thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Wilson’s tone is unexpectedly fond, soft even. House thinks he must be losing it- he desperately needs sleep.
Wilson turns to leave. “The balcony door to my office is open, if you need a place to nap,” he says, hand on the door handle. “Or if you’re too tired to drive home, just give me a call, okay?”
“Who died and made you my parent? Please tell me it was my dad, actually-”
“Good night, House.”
House can’t suppress his smile. “Good night, Wilson.”
8am finds House in the armchair in his office, drifting in and out of sleep with the Journal of Cardiology and Cardiovascular Medicine covering his face from the light. He’s vaguely aware that Cameron has filed into the outer office; she’s taking over from Foreman, who probably already has headed home to get some sleep.
He assumes that the next set of footsteps belong to Chase, but he immediately recognizes Wilson’s voice, muffled as it is through the glass wall.
“I brought House some lunch,” he says in a low murmur, apparently conscious of not bothering House in his slumber. “And a change of clothes, because I wasn’t sure if he had any. I’ll leave those here and take the food to the fridge, so if you could just let him know when he wakes up.”
“Sure,” Cameron replies, obnoxiously cheerful for this time of day. “Yeah, I will do that.”
“Thanks.” Wilson walks out, and House makes a mental note that he really needs to check up on him soon, because this kind of mother hen thing could be a sign of, well, something. After all, Wilson might be a divorce veteran, but this one could have pushed him over the edge and straight into insanity.
House decides he will stage an intervention- after he gets more than thirty minutes of sleep.
All that is forgotten, however, as the patient’s mother accidentally reveals a crucial detail about his diet- and little by little, plucking at the threads, House finally unravels the case, to his immense satisfaction. The patient will live, and House is absolutely elated, tired as he is. He leaves the fellows to deal with the aftermath of setting up the correct treatment, and without thinking, he heads to Wilson’s office.
“I did it,” he declares with great flourish as he walks in. “I saved him! Praise me, you poor mortal souls!”
Wilson is alone, scribbling something on a patient file, but he looks up with a smile. “I knew you would,” he says, the undertone stirring something in the pit of House’s stomach- no, no, it must be Wilson’s cooking, he’ll have to file a complaint about that later. All this fiber and vitamins aren’t sitting so well with his digestion.
“Well, I don’t see why anyone should ever doubt me,” House replies, and throws himself on Wilson’s couch. It’s not the most comfortable thing in the world, but it’s familiar- he knows Wilson’s office as well as his own, even Wilson’s scent like a comforting touch after all these years rather than the offensive smell of another alpha that it should be.
It almost smells like home, really, now that Wilson has been staying with him.
The thought vanishes too fast to fully register.
“Yes, it is our fault, having so little faith,” Wilson muses, closing the file and placing it on the neat pile of outgoing papers. He glances at his watch thoughtfully. “It’s almost three- I think I can wrap this up by four. I’ll drive you home then.”
House knocks back a couple of Vicodin, before fixing Wilson with a suspicious look. “Drive me home? Last I checked, I drove here myself- granted, that was over 36 hours ago, so I guess there’s a possibility something’s happened to my bike since then.”
Wilson’s glare is heavy, demanding, and House knows that Wilson will fight him if he has to in order to win this argument. House may be more headstrong, but when Wilson draws a line- well, House might still walk right over it, but he also knows that it’s usually not worth the trouble.
“I’m driving you,” Wilson repeats, scowling. “You see, it works very well, because we have the same destination.”
House smacks his lips thoughtfully. “Right, yes, I guess that’s true,” he replies. He kicks his feet up on the coffee table and settles against the back of the couch, closing his eyes. “So, wake me up when you’re ready, then.”
Though truth being told, between the Vicodin and his sleep debt, he does feel a little fuzzy- perhaps driving his bike home would not be such a good idea, in the interest of safety of the good people of New Jersey. House crosses his arms across his chest and sleep claims him almost immediately.
He wakes up covered by Wilson’s blazer, to Wilson talking quietly on the phone while he packs his things. Groggy, House brings the blazer to his face and brushes it against his cheek, while attempting to blink his eyes into focus. His head is spinning even more now, further underlining how badly he needs the sleep.
Wilson’s breathing hitches, and House turns to look at him, brows furrowed. “You’re… blushing,” he says, his tongue sticky, his mouth full of cotton. “Are you- is that your latest omega conquest on the phone?”
“N-No,” Wilson tells him, turning away. “Ah, yeah, no, sorry Brenda, I wasn’t talking to you- yeah, so, make sure Mr. Aberdeen gets his sleep medication tonight, he hasn’t been getting much rest, so-”
House stops listening to him then, and struggles to get up on his feet, unsteady. When Wilson ends the call, House offers his jacket back to him. Wilson’s face is no longer pink, and House is too tired to tease him right now- he files this away for later, though, fully intending to investigate further. First, he needs to find out who Brenda is…
And in his bleary state, he doesn’t even mind Wilson’s hand on his lower back, anchoring him as he staggers his way to Wilson’s car. Sure, it’s strictly not necessary, and House hates receiving any help, but with how disoriented he feels, it’s not so terrible.
Except that it becomes a habit for Wilson.
It happens when House is getting coffee with him in the cafeteria. Wilson pays for both of them, as usual, and House promptly ignores the whole transaction in favor of continuing his rant about Cuddy.
“I wonder if she’s going into rut or something, because I don’t understand why she’s been so bitchy lately,” he laments, shoving a lid on his cup and turning around on his heels to follow Wilson out of the packed cafeteria. “I mean, yeah, sure, I’m a little behind on my clinic hours, but is that any reason to scream at me in the middle of the lobby?”
Wilson chuckles. “She didn’t scream at you, and you’re more than just a little bit behind. Last I checked, you owe her like seven months of clinic hours. Not seven months’ worth- seven actual months.”
“Seven months is nothing,” House begins his defense, but is a little startled to feel Wilson’s hand slide on his lower back, gently guiding him through the crowded space with the press of the heel of his palm, his fingertips spread wide. It interrupts his thought completely- and when the hand stays there, even as they make it to the open space of the hallway, he has to say something.
“You’re touching me,” he says, widening his eyes. “What exactly are you doing, Mr. Darcy?”
“Nothing, just didn’t want anyone to bump into you,” Wilson is quick to reply, and his hand falls away from House’s back. “And with the rate that you’re going, it’s gonna take you years to catch up with those hours- actually, I think you’re constantly in the red, so-”
“But I have at least twenty years of employment left before retirement,” House mutters, taking a sip of his coffee. He can accept that Wilson’s urge to care had gone into overdrive- it’s what Wilson does best, smother everyone around him in attention and concern until they drown under it all. And now with his latest marriage on the rocks, he doesn’t have enough people to do it to; fine, House will let him, because they’re bros. If this is what it takes to keep Wilson nominally sane, so be it.
Then, the next day, Wilson touches him when they’re walking to the parking garage, laughing about how Chase embarrassed himself in front of the patient due to some cultural misunderstanding born from differences in Aussie and American accents. Wilson wraps his fingers around House’s left elbow, gently holding him back so he doesn’t get run over by a group of med students running wild, and then his hand just stays there, warm and sure and surprisingly substantial.
House looks down at where Wilson is touching him, then up at Wilson’s face, and Wilson only offers a serene smile. “It was either this or hold your hand tenderly,” he says, still not dropping his hand as they exit the building and step into the garage.
“Or, there was a third option- use your words. No touching required,” House suggests. “But I guess that was too out of the box for you.”
“Right,” Wilson snorts, giving House’s elbow another squeeze before letting go. “And you would have eaten dirt with a pile of first year med students on top of you.”
“Some of them looked kinda cute, so it wouldn’t have been that bad,” House muses, clicking his tongue. “Though they just keep getting younger, have you noticed?”
“Yeah,” Wilson chortles, and then, his hand is back, pressing against House’s back as he slips around him. “I’ll stop by at the dry cleaners on the way home- do you need me to grab you anything? Snacks, booze, the new Tom Cruise movie on DVD?”
“I’m good,” House replies, digging through his pockets to find his keys. “You’re keeping the kitchen so well stocked, we could open up a bodega ourselves.”
Wilson rolls his eyes at this, before walking away to get into his car.
Then, it’s the press of Wilson’s thigh against House’s when they’re seated on the sofa a day or so later. They’ve just finished dinner, matzo ball soup à la Wilson’s bubbe. Out of respect for her, House refrains from making any snide comments, although that isn’t exactly difficult because the food is actually quite tasty. But Wilson doesn’t need to know that- his obsessive streak with keeping them both well fed on hearty and healthy home cooked meals has yet to subside, and House doesn’t wish to encourage the madness.
“You should do the dishes,” Wilson says as he sets down his bowl on the coffee table. He wipes his mouth tidily with a napkin and takes a swig of his beer, before he settles back against the couch cushions.
“Can’t,” House mutters, gesturing at his bum leg with the bottom of his beer bottle. “Hurts like a bitch. Can’t stand for that long.”
Wilson shakes his head. “You wouldn’t do the dishes even if you weren’t hurting,” he replies snarkily, all the while inching toward the center of the couch- House doesn’t pay much attention, not until Wilson’s leg is pressed firmly against his. He hisses quietly through his teeth as the slight pressure makes his nerves scream at him, before the warmth of Wilson’s body seeps through the material of both of their pants and the pain ebbs away slowly.
It’s kind of nice, House thinks, as he keeps his eyes on the TV. That’s probably why Wilson is doing it- he knows that heat helps with the cramps and the neuropathic pain. House checked his credentials, and it turns out that James Evan Wilson really is a board certified doctor; who would have thought?
“You could also just get me an actual heating pad,” he mumbles, reaching for his Vicodin. He really is hurting more than usual- not that he’s ever quite pain free, but still. He wasn’t making excuses.
“Too tired,” Wilson replies. A second passes, and then, his left hand comes to rest on top of House’s leg, right over the scar- Wilson is one of the very few people who know exactly what his injury is like, where the chunk of muscle was carved out of his thigh.
House has to bite his lower lip to not make a sound, and his knee jerk reaction is to tell him to fuck off. He doesn’t like people touching his scar, doesn’t like people getting in his space, and he especially doesn’t like it when people think they can help because the reality is no one can. But again, the warmth radiating from Wilson’s skin is more soothing than he would have thought, and as the seconds pass, the better it begins to feel.
“I guess that’s a tolerable substitute,” he mumbles, swallowing another mouthful of beer. Wilson hums something noncommittal in response, and House figures that this isn’t so bad. Sure, sitting so close to another alpha makes his skin tingle all funny, sets a weird kind of electric current through him, but he concludes that it’s some primitive reaction that has no reason to exist in the modern world. If Wilson wants to alleviate some of his pain, that’s all well and good.
And somehow, just like the constant, generous meals that Wilson insists on cooking for both of them, the passing touches become background noise as well. Wilson is just always there, always has been- and now, whenever he’s within an arm’s length, he’s brushing up against House, bumping shoulders, his hand on House’s back, on his elbow, on his shoulder, on his hip. There’s the ‘watch out, I’m right behind you’ touch and there’s the ‘step aside, I need to grab this’ touch and there’s the ‘we’re sitting side by side on the couch and I’ll just put my hand here’ touch, and it’s perfectly fine and normal. Their pinkies brush against each other when they walk, or Wilson leans against him to read the patient file in House’s hand, or Wilson dusts away lint from House’s jacket, or Wilson holds his hand for a brief second when he passes him a cup of coffee.
House figures Wilson is just… off kilter, when he doesn’t have a pretty omega on his arm, or in his bed. It’s fine- they’re bros. Touching is so beneficial, he remembers reading about that in a study or two, and while touch starvation is not a real medical condition, House has an intimate understanding of how a lack of physical affection could make one feel really, really lonely.
There’s a reason why he has a roster of hookers on retainer, after all.
He hasn’t called any of them since Wilson moved in, but that’s neither here nor there.
***
“There’s some coffee left in the pot,” Wilson greets House when House stumbles into the kitchen, bleary eyed and a little hazy. “Do you want me to pop some toast in the toaster for you?”
“Dunno,” House mumbles, trying and ultimately failing to get any air in his lungs through his nose. The disgusting noise isn’t enough to make Wilson look up from where he’s shoving eggs in his mouth at the island, but when House breaks into whacking coughs, he’s by his side in a flash.
House tries to pull away from the hand on his forehead, but Wilson has a grip around his middle, and so House decides that it isn’t worth it to try and fight him off.
“You’re burning up,” Wilson says, grave concern etched all over his handsome features, and House would make a snide comment but another coughing fit overtakes him. He has no choice but to let Wilson walk him to the couch to sit down.
“I’m fine,” he insists once he regains control of his breathing, but Wilson is already on a mission like the unstoppable force that he is.
“Lie down,” he says, suddenly all stern, the sharp edge of his alpha nature coming through in his voice. House would laugh in his face at that, if he wasn’t still wheezing so hard.
Wilson always puts away his bedding in the morning, but now, he very quickly undoes all of that, piling the pillows behind House’s head and tucking him in like a giant, lanky burrito. “Stay there,” he commands, and House rolls his eyes so hard that it hurts a little.
“Again with the mother hen act, you’ve got to get yourself a puppy or something-”
“Thankfully, I stocked the medicine cabinet,” Wilson says as though he doesn’t hear House, rounding the couch to head for the bathroom. “Do you have any unusual pain? A headache, muscle or joint pain, anything?”
House sighs. He’s not quite ready to just roll over and let Wilson baby him, but maybe it’s best that he just tries to tolerate him until Wilson ultimately has to leave for work. He must be running behind in his neurotic schedule already.
“Just the garden variety generalized ache all over,” he mumbles, burrowing into the blanket. It does feel kind of nice- Wilson’s scent all around him, like a soothing embrace, faint as it is with his stuffy nose. He knows some omegas who would kill for this experience. A shiver runs through him- must be the fever.
“Here’s some Benadryl, and ibuprofen,” Wilson says as he returns from the bathroom, swerving for the kitchen. “Though I’m a little worried that you’re spiking a fever with all the acetaminophen in your system.”
“Medical anomaly, how fun,” House grumbles, licking his lips. They’re so uncomfortably dry after presumably breathing through his mouth all night. “I should call the trio here, run a DDX.”
“You wouldn’t waste more than sixty seconds diagnosing this in the clinic,” Wilson replies dryly, returning to the living room with a tall glass of water and the pills. But House can definitely see the genuine concern on his face as he sets those down on the coffee table, before he turns around on his heels to head back into the kitchen.
“Yet here we are, two department heads, nursing me back to health,” House quips. He pushes himself up on his elbow and takes the medicine, nearly choking on the water when another bout of coughing overwhelms him.
“Good thing this isn’t billable,” Wilson replies. House can hear the microwave door close, and the steady hum of the appliance. Wilson rummages through the cupboards. “Or maybe I should actually charge you.”
“You can take it off your next rent payment,” House says without missing a beat, slouching back against the pillows.
When Wilson returns once again, he’s carrying a box of tissues, and a cup of hot tea. “The honey is going to help with your throat,” he says as he sets the items down as well. He turns to look at House with his hands on his hips, the press of his mouth betraying how serious he is despite the casual banter. “I have a few patients coming in today, but I could try and drop by on my lunch break-”
“Absolutely not,” House snivels, grabbing a tissue to blow his nose. “I’m a doctor, remember? Pretty sure I can run this operation by myself. Go to work, tell Cuddy I’m sick.”
Wilson’s shoulders remain tensed up, his eyes dark. “Promise you’ll call me if anything changes, okay? No ifs or buts, House,” he points an accusatory finger at him. House holds up both of his hands to silently proclaim his innocence. “I don’t wanna come home and find you passed out on the floor or something.”
“No wonder the cancer ward is such a dreary place, if this is how you handle a simple case of the snivels,” House mumbles. “Hand me the remote and get out already. I’ll be fine.”
Wilson’s sigh speaks more than a thousand words, but he does finally walk out. House settles in comfortably, flicking on the TV and propping himself up on the pillows to make it easier to breathe.
If he brings the corner of the blanket up to his nose, it’s just to wipe his snot on it.
Wilson doesn’t check up on him over lunch, which House is quite grateful for- he spends most of the day right there on the couch, fully enjoying the opportunity to do absolutely nothing. Usually he’s interrupted by work when he’s trying to enjoy daytime TV, but today, he can watch as much of it as he pleases. It’s not so bad, aside from the terrible cough that rattles him to his bones.
But Wilson does come home early that day, bustling through the door with the urgency of someone who expects to find their roommate dead on the floor, his posture relaxing when he sees House staring up at him from right where he left him that morning. The smile he gives House is a relieved one, although still cautious, concerned.
House gestures broadly at the mix of empty cups, glasses, and medicine bottles he’s left on the coffee table. “I’ve been a good patient, and a good doctor,” he says proudly, reaching for Wilson’s hand and bringing it to his forehead. Wilson has to lean over to touch him, but he goes easily, his hand cool on House’s skin.
“You’re still a little warm,” he mumbles. He moves his hand away from House’s forehead and puts it on the armrest behind House’s head instead, hovering quite close, his eyes full of worry as he scans House’s face. “How do you feel?”
“Pretty okay,” House replies. Looking Wilson in the eyes at this proximity is a little intimate, he’ll admit, but he takes it as a challenge, hardening his stare to will Wilson to break eye contact first. “I think I’ll live.”
“That’s good,” Wilson says with surprising sincerity. “Maybe you just caught the flu from the clinic.”
“Yet another reason to avoid clinic duty,” House says indignantly, scowling up at Wilson. “What exactly are you expecting to see on my face, or what’s going on?”
Wilson smiles broadly at that. “Sorry, I just got lost in your beautiful eyes,” he retorts, and swoops down to press a kiss on House’s forehead before he pulls away. “I got you some cough drops, and aloe vera tissues, supposedly those don’t rub your skin raw so quickly. And chapstick, because I know you haven’t got any.”
For a brief second, House considers saying something about the kiss- but then decides against it. After all, Wilson was just trying to rile him up, so what better way to win this game than to not react at all?
“What do you want to have for dinner,” Wilson asks as he begins to collect the cups and glasses. “Chicken noodle soup? Porridge? What did your mom cook for you when you were sick?”
“I’m not particularly hungry,” House grumbles, but Wilson levels him with one of his signature ‘so help me God’ stares, and House figures that arguing over this is useless, even as a deflection. He hides behind a tissue, dabbing at his nose. “Mom didn’t cook me anything in particular, because my dad believed kids should be grateful to just have food on the table.”
Wilson pauses, and then sets down the dishes to place a warm hand on House’s shoulder, rubbing back and forth with his thumb. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice low, laced with genuine sorrow, but there’s the steely edge of anger hidden behind the empathy, too. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m really sorry. What would you like to have? I’ll make anything.”
House decidedly hates this. He only chances a very brief glance up at Wilson’s eyes- the vastness of the emotion in them makes his heart twist uncomfortably in his chest. “It’s whatever,” he murmurs, tearing the tissue into pieces in his hands. “I guess… I guess a grilled cheese would be nice.”
“A grilled cheese coming right up,” Wilson replies, and before House can duck out of the way, he presses yet another kiss on House’s forehead.
Before House can think of anything to say, Wilson has picked up the dishes once again and disappeared into the kitchen.
Wilson really needs to find his next conquest soon, House thinks to himself as he turns his attention back to the TV. There’s only so much physical affection he can put up with, even for the sake of their friendship- clearly, Wilson needs a new victim to tirelessly care about, or else he’ll combust.
***
“You reek,” Cuddy tells House as he strides in through the main doors, returning to work after taking a couple days off to recover from his cold. House quirks an eyebrow at her, before theatrically sniffing at his armpit.
“No, I distinctly remember showering this morning,” he says thoughtfully. “Though my hooker last night did have some rather offensive perfume on. That’s what I get for trying to save a couple bucks and getting someone cheaper than my usual girls.”
“You didn’t see a hooker last night, because you were watching wrestling with Wilson. I know this because he told me when he was leaving work,” Cuddy says, and then, a realization dawns on her. House could swear the excitement makes even her tits perk up. “That’s the smell- you smell like Wilson!”
“Wait, I’m confused- are you trying to offend me or poor Wilson, who isn’t even here to defend himself?” House replies, feigning indignation, but Cuddy is like a dog that has been given a juicy bone. She won’t let this one go so easily.
“Alpha musk on another alpha, no wonder it made me bristle,” she declares, pointing a finger at House’s chest. “Are you guys just living in each other’s pockets, or has Wilson finally moved from the couch into your bed? My oh my, the rumor mill-”
“Is wrong, as usual,” House cuts her off. This isn’t so much embarrassing as it is just plain boring. He starts to make his way towards the elevators, the clack of Cuddy’s heels following him. “While I was sick, I spent most of my time on the couch, where Wilson has always been sleeping, so I guess some of his scent rubbed off on me. I’m so sorry to disappoint you, but you haven’t uncovered anything.”
Though he is just a little bit curious- what rumors is Cuddy talking about? What rumors could there possibly exist about him and Wilson, two alpha best friends? What is there to talk about? House doesn’t get it.
“I’m glad, actually,” Cuddy says with a grin. “If this stench became a permanent thing, I’m not sure I could stand it.”
“That is highly offensive, I’ll have to pay a visit to HR,” House says indignantly, before stepping into the elevator. Cuddy just continues to smile at him as the doors close, while House just gives her his best impassive stare.
When he arrives at the office, Chase wrinkles his nose immediately. “What the hell is that,” he asks, his face betraying how put off he is. “You smell like a high school locker room.”
“Thanks, you really do know how to flirt with us alphas,” House mutters, going straight for the coffee pot. “No wonder you’re single.”
“It is kind of… strong,” Cameron comes to Chase’s aid, and House sighs forcibly through his nose. “I mean, it’s just- you smell like Wilson, which is odd-”
“It’s not odd, considering Wilson lives on my couch,” House replies, glaring at his duckling as hard as he can in an effort to shut them up. “And I’ve spent several days lying on that couch, sick. So, feel free to move past this. Do we have a patient?”
Chase gives him a funny look. “I don’t think it’s just the couch,” he says, taking a measured sip from his coffee. “I mean, he’s been all over you the past few weeks- pretty sure that’s where his pheromones got rubbed on you. On purpose.”
House feels like he’s missing something. “Wilson is just clingy, because he’s in between wives right now,” House replies with finality. “A patient, anyone? I need something to stimulate my brain, guys.”
Foreman hands him a chart, and House is quickly enamored by the new puzzle in his hands.
He only remembers the topic again when he gets home that night. It’s late- the arterial blood gas test and the angiogram had given them such bizarre results that House had to stay back to try and make sense of them, before leaving the patient in the hands of his team for the night. He’s still mulling it over as he gets home, but gets sidetracked when he finds Wilson in his bedroom, folding his laundry.
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t pay for maid service, because if I did, I would have asked for the outfit also,” House says, earning himself a chuckle from Wilson.
“Well, I just figured I’d help out,” Wilson replies with an easy, relaxed smile. “I didn’t have any cooking to do tonight, so I decided to clean and get some laundry done. I’m sure you don’t mind.”
That’s hard to argue with. “I was told your scent has rubbed off on me,” he says instead. “And apparently it doesn’t smell nice. I’m still trying to decide if that’s an insult to me, you, or us both.” House glares at the way Wilson is folding away his underwear, fingers working deftly- no wonder he has started to smell like his roommate, when his housewife act has reached this kind of level.
Wilson doesn’t seem so perturbed. “Since when have you cared about what others think about you?” he asks with raised eyebrows. “I find it hard to imagine that it would seriously bother you.”
House shrugs his shoulders. “You’re right, I don’t care,” he replies. “I just find it interesting that people noticed so quickly- Chase nearly hurled as soon as I walked in. I mean, you never mentioned it.”
Wilson finishes balling up the last of House’s socks, and shoves the hamper into the corner. “Well, I didn’t think it was such a big deal,” he says, walking towards House. “I mean, yes, I did notice it, and well-” And he wraps his arm around House’s middle, to bring him in for an embrace, pressing his nose into the crook of House’s neck for a brief moment before he lets go. “-I do like it, honestly.” He moves past House with a pat on his ass, heading for the kitchen. “Do you want the lasagna or the minestrone soup for dinner?”
Something hot rushes to House’s cheeks, which he promptly chalks up to his cold making one last effort to bring him down.
“We really need to get you laid,” he mutters to no one, spinning around on his heels. “Wouldn’t another grilled cheese be a valid option?” he says, raising his voice enough for Wilson to hear.
“Absolutely not, you need something more substantial!”
***
Eventually, everyone stops commenting on the way Wilson’s scent lingers on House’s skin. House knows that it does, because he can smell it when he pays attention- otherwise it’s just in the background, like the sound of traffic, something you hardly even think about until it’s gone. Like when he emerges from the shower, with only the scent of the body wash on him.
Wilson is just needy for physical intimacy, House thinks whenever the other alpha presses up against him, or hugs him, or leans into his personal space. It’s fine. They’re roommates, in a tiny apartment. There’s nothing weird about smelling like one another.
And he’s glad that others accept this as fact, too, because the conversations got really tiring, really fast. House hates to repeat himself, especially when the discussion is going around in circles. It’s even more dumb than small talk- why should you talk about something, when you know it’s not going anywhere? He smells like Wilson, so what?
It’ll go away as soon as Wilson finally finds an apartment, moves out, and gets himself a pretty omega to nurture and fuck.
Somehow the thought of that makes his throat a little tight, which House is quick to dismiss.
But it also helps to brush the topic of him and Wilson under the rug that there’s someone else in the shared office space who stinks from a mile away. Even the betas are affected, for an omega going into heat- thousands of years of evolution made sure that it has everyone in a tizzy.
House hates it, because it makes getting any work done nearly impossible.
Chase, for all intents and purposes, seems quite oblivious, or he’s just pretending to be for the fun of it. From past experience, House knows that the pre-heat pheromones are going to be present for a week or even two until Chase will finally succumb to his heat, at which point he’ll be on sick leave until he recovers.
One to two weeks of everyone going insane- these are the moments when House really, really regrets hiring an omega. He’d never say that out loud, because it would land him straight into a discrimination lawsuit, but even so.
And even worse still, it has him affected, too. He can keep a cool head, for the most part, but it bothers him to know that his judgment could be compromised, and none of his fellows can be counted on to be the voice of reason. It kind of defeats the whole purpose of having a team, really.
He’s trying to list the symptoms of their latest patient, but it seems that only Chase is listening to him- Cameron and Foreman are both too busy making heart eyes at Chase instead. It’s now the fifth day of this, and the office is so full of hormones that House thinks he could cut the air with a scalpel.
“So, the patient presents with explosive diarrhea, tinnitus, and genital warts,” he lists, having purposefully picked a case as unappealing as possible. He chances a look at Chase, the only person who’s even facing him, and realizes that the meaning of his words probably didn’t even register; the way that the omega is looking at him and chewing on the tip of his pencil seems more flirty than focused.
The attention could be flattering, but House isn’t interested in the slightest- the fact that under any other circumstances, Chase would never entertain the idea of sleeping with him kind of takes all the fun out of it. “Do I have to send all of you home, or can any one of you do your job?” he asks, slamming his cane against the whiteboard, startling the fellows into paying attention, even if only momentarily.
House sighs. “Foreman and Cameron, go and get me a better medical history. The patient is hiding something, I’m sure of it. And Chase, for the love of god, please go and get some kind of blockers- this is getting out of hand.” House rubs a hand down his face, listening for the sound of chairs scraping against the floor as his team makes a hasty exit.
Well, two thirds of them do.
“But I don’t want to be on hormones,” Chase says- no, whines, and House can feel a migraine coming on. He opens his eyes to face the trouble maker, doing his best to school his expression into something less like a grimace.
“Well, if you don’t want to be on hormones, you’re gonna have to go home and stay there, until this heat business is over,” he says, gesturing at Chase with his fingers ambiguously. “Because it’s driving all of us up the wall.”
Chase fucking giggles. “Aw, really? You’re that affected, too?” he simpers, sidling closer to House, and House stares up at the ceiling in exasperation. At this rate, he’s going to land himself into a lawsuit even if he doesn’t say anything.
“No amount of willpower or self loathing can make you immune to hormones,” he says as calmly as he can, holding onto his cane with both hands. “Can you find your way to the pharmacy on your own, or do I have to find you an escort?”
“Don’t be such a killjoy,” Chase says with a pout, now standing inches away from House. His skin is hotter than normal as he traces two fingertips over the back of House’s hand and up his wrist as high up as the cuff of House’s jacket will allow. “If you want it, and I want it, then what’s so bad about it?”
“That’s just the thing,” House says with a forced smile. “I have plenty of reason to believe that you don’t actually want me. And you’re really not my type either, no matter how pretty you are.”
Chase has his nose pressed into the fabric of House’s jacket now too, his voice muffled. House does his best to control his breathing. Chase’s next words are so nonsensical that House thinks he must have misheard him. “Pardon?”
“Is it because you’re bonded with Wilson?” Chase repeats, his tone sullen. “Is he your type?”
So he did hear him right- apparently this oncoming heat has already destroyed the rational part of Chase’s brain. Seeing that the omega looks close to tears with disappointment, House offers him an awkward pat on the shoulder. “Of course I’m not, don’t be stupid,” he replies. “We’re both alphas, you idiot, we’re not courting each other or whatever the fuck.”
“It looks a lot like courting to me,” Chase mutters. There’s a feverish hue on his cheeks, his eyes a little wet. “He’s constantly all over you, touching you, marking you, scenting you. Taking care of you with food, with everything. It’s just kind of selfish, you know? Two alphas together, that’s just unfair.”
House has to send Chase home, there’s nothing else for it. If this is the kind of rationale he can offer then he’s no use at all, because this is the weirdest thing House has heard in a long time, and that’s including the conversations he has at the clinic about safe sex. House sidesteps away from Chase’s reach, making his way to the door.
“I’m gonna grab someone who’s not gonna be affected by your breeding cycle and have them take you home,” he tells the forlorn omega. “Just, sit your ass down and don’t go anywhere, okay? And keep your clothes on.”
Once House finds an omega nurse to drive Chase to his apartment, House does his best to forget about the whole thing and just focus on the case at hand. Cameron and Foreman work much better with their horny colleague gone, and the case continues to get more interesting. But the patient is stable and House is short on excuses to avoid clinic duty, so he heads down there, bracing himself for the hours of boredom ahead.
Wilson is at the nurses’ station, scribbling something in a patient file, and he perks up as soon as he hears House’s signature, lopsided gait, punctuated by the thud of his cane. His smile is brilliant, toothy, unreserved, his eyes lit up, and House returns the smile without realizing it.
But then, as he comes to stand right next to Wilson, the man’s smile is wiped away and replaced with something House has difficulty deciphering at first- until, with stunned disbelief, House realizes that it’s a look of jealousy and anger.
“What have you been doing?” Wilson hisses at him, crowding into his space, nostrils flared. “What is that smell?”
House blinks at him in genuine confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about-” But Wilson won’t let him finish, won’t let him even think, his glare accusatory, his voice raised uncharacteristically loud.
“You reek of an omega in heat,” he says with a sharp jab of his forefinger to House’s chest. “It’s Chase, isn’t it? That little viper has practically been waiting for his chance to make a move at you, that cocky bastard.”
Somehow the more Wilson talks, the less sense the situation makes. House is acutely aware of all the hospital staff and patients in the clinic staring at them, some with open interest, some in startled surprise, and House can’t blame them.
This isn’t like Wilson.
Wilson’s eyes grow narrow. “Or did you make a move?” he asks, his eyes suddenly all pupil, dark with rage. “Did you? That sweet omega scent, it’s so hard to resist isn’t it, you just couldn’t help yourself, could you?”
Wilson pokes him again, hard enough to hurt, and House grabs his wrist to stop him. “I didn’t do anything,” House tells him, holding Wilson’s unnerving gaze with his. “Nothing happened, calm down-”
“Calm down?” Wilson scoffs, hackles raised. He’s gone pale, and House can feel a slight tremble going through him- House has never seen him this mad, this out of control.
And House doesn’t have the faintest idea why he’s reacting like this.
“Or continue screaming your head off, sure,” House tells him, gesturing at the crowd around them with his free hand. “What the hell has gotten into you? Why are you going barking mad that my employee’s heat scent got rubbed off on me when we spent time working together in the same office?”
Wilson seems to find some composure, though his breaths are still shallow and shaky. He takes a step forward, bringing their chests only an inch apart. House becomes suddenly very aware of Wilson’s overwhelming musk washing over him- it makes his mouth dry, his chest tight.
“Did you do something to him, or did Chase do something to you?” Wilson demands to know, the rumble of his voice resonating in House’s ribcage.
“Chase sniffed at me because his heat flared up suddenly,” House says slowly. “I didn’t touch him, and he didn’t know what he was doing. I had to find someone to drive him home, he was getting so out of it. What the hell is going on, Wilson?”
He keeps all the snark out of his response, sensing that they’ve reached a point where he shouldn’t push Wilson any further. Not until he figures out why Wilson is overreacting like this- even a sudden rut wouldn’t explain this kind of hot-headed alpha behavior. Wilson is acting like House is his bonded mate or something, which is fucking stupid-
Something wildly uncomfortable gnaws at House’s conscious mind, and he can’t shove it back, the horrible, horrible realization making his heart plummet even before his mind can quite catch up with it all.
It doesn’t make any sense. It can’t be- this can’t be happening.
Wilson is still shaking, his eyes completely unreadable, his whole body poised as if he’s ready to jump into a fight. He tears his hand away from House’s grip, which House lets happen, all strength draining out of him suddenly. It’s so quiet that you could hear a pin drop.
“You aren’t Chase’s to scent mark,” Wilson says, his voice unsteady, his fingers curling in the lapel of House’s jacket and pulling him so they’re standing chest to chest. “He had no right to do that.”
And the thing is, House knows how Wilson feels- how horrible it was to smell someone else on Stacy, how wrong and gut wrenching it felt, how viscerally his whole body had reacted to smelling someone else on the woman he thought of as his. He gets it, he does-
But he’s not Wilson’s. They’re not bonded. They’re bros, best buddies, roommates.
House feels like he’s falling, and he can’t find anything to grasp to stop it.
“Chase didn’t do it on purpose,” he says quietly, placing his hand over Wilson’s. An alpha this upset could be dangerous, he knows that, can see the omegas in the clinic scurrying away from them. “But even if he did… We’re not, you’re not- We’re not dating, Wilson, you know that-”
Wilson’s lower jaw trembles, and House can hear the hitch in his breath. And it feels horrible, it fucking hurts, and House doesn’t understand why because he’s only stating the facts, he’s only saying what everyone knows to be the truth, when did he fall through the looking glass into this world where nothing makes any goddamn sense?
“You’re a horrible, horrible person,” Wilson whispers, his eyes suddenly brimming with tears. House can’t remember the last time he’s seen him cry. It’s not right. “You’re selfish, and you only care about yourself. I don’t know why I would ever- why did I ever think that-” But the rest is drowned out by the sob that wrecks through him, and he lets go, spins around, and marches out.
House has watched Wilson walk away many times before.
None of them have hurt quite like this.