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English
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Published:
2025-04-22
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985
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1/1
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The "little" serect

Summary:

it started with a juice box, House didn't try to pry until Wilson shows up with a plush dinosaur in his bag.

Notes:

Thanks for reading! :D I luv comments and all kinds of feedback <33

Work Text:

It starts with a juice box.

Not even a good one—just one of those generic store-brand apple juice packs you’d find in a third-grader’s lunch. House finds it in Wilson’s office trash can, crushed and sticky. Weird, but not that weird. Wilson’s always been the type to forget lunch and grab something random from the hospital vending machine. House mocks him for it, naturally but there was a hint of softness to his voice even when mocking.

Then comes the plush dinosaur.

It’s peeking out of Wilson’s messenger bag one afternoon, bright green and offensively adorable  (at least according to House), with big embroidered eyes. House raises an eyebrow.

“You’re seeing pediatric patients now?” he asks, deadpan.

Wilson turns pink trying to come up with a lie. “It was… umm a gift?”

“Mhm.”

The coloring book appears next, not one of those “adult stress relief coloring books” nor was it a dinosaur train coloring book. Then a second juice box appeared in the empty trash can. Then a nap-time blanket (flannel, soft, suspiciously folded under Wilson’s desk).

House doesn’t say anything right away. He collects evidence like it's an important case, he treats it better then how he would treat a patient's case. Which, in a way, he is, he always treated Wilson slightly better when it came to anything; House refrained from saying anything about what Wilson was doing.

Until the day he comes in and finds Wilson sitting under his desk, arms wrapped tight around his knees, wearing a hoodie at least two sizes too big; the hoodie was a light green one with a light grey dinosaur printed on its front. His eyes are glassy with tears threatening to fall. And a plush dinosaur is clutched to his chest like a lifeline.

“...Well,” House says, casually stepping over a discarded juice box, “I guess this explains the sudden influx of apple juice in your diet.”

Wilson’s head snaps up. His face goes crimson red. “No—House, I wasn’t—I didn’t—”

“Calm down, Bambi,” House says, holding up his hands. “I’m not gonna tell Cuddy or anyone you’re secretly five years old.”

Wilson looks away, ashamed mummbling. “You think it’s stupid.”

House drops into the chair, legs sprawling, cane resting against his knee. “Oh, I know it’s stupid. Doesn’t mean I care.”

Silence.

Then, quietly: “...You’re not gonna leave?”

House pulls a juice box out of his coat pocket and tosses it at him.

“Nah. I came prepared.”

Wilson stares at the juice box in his lap like it might explode or that its posioned.

“I... you brought one?”

House shrugs. “You think I wouldn’t notice your secret apple addiction? You’ve gone through like, a 12-pack in three days. I’m not blind. Or dumb. Despite what the entirety of Princeton Plainsboro might say.”

Wilson huffs out a tiny laugh, the kind that gets caught in his throat. “I didn’t mean for you to—”

“To find you hiding under your desk like a mopey kindergartener? Yeah, well. I kinda figured something was up when Mr. Adult Oncologist started carrying around Mr. Dino everywhere.”

Wilson blushes again and hugs the dinosaur tighter.

House leans forward slightly, elbows on knees, expression unusually unreadable. “Look, I don’t care why you do this. You wanna color and drink juice and snuggle your emotional support lizard? Fine. Whatever floats your repression boat.”

“Dinosaur,” Wilson corrects softly, giggling slightly.

House blinks at him, not used to Wilson being so childish. “...Excuse me. Emotional support dinosaur. Duh.”

There’s a long pause. Wilson fidgets with the straw on his juice box but doesn’t open it. He looks up at House, eyes just a little too wide, a little too uncertain.. Untrusting even.

“You’re really not mad?” Wilson asked his big eyes staring up at House from under the desk.

House makes a face like he’s been personally offended. “Mad? What, because you have the emotional regulation skills of a toddler and you’re finally doing something about it instead of martyring yourself into an ulcer?”

Wilson’s lower lip wobbles. “...That’s mean.”

“It’s accurate,” House says, but the edge in his voice has softened.

Without another word, he reaches over, plucks the straw from Wilson’s hand, and pierces the juice box for him. Then he holds it out like he’s offering a peace treaty.

“Drink your apple juice and sit back. I’m picking the movie.”

Wilson accepts the box with trembling fingers. “...Can it be animated?”

House rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they stay in his skull though he was completely amused by Wilsons request. “Only if it has at least one explosion and no singing rodents.”

Wilson actually smiles. A small one. Barely there. But real.

He sips his juice and a sudden realization hits him as he realizes House bought him the good juice.. The name brand stuff and he lets out a happy squeal, curls his knees closer to his chest, and lets out a long, soft sigh—like some of the pressure and annoying mean patients finally let go; he then lays his head on the stuffed dinosaur.

House gets up limping a bit, he flicks off the harsh fluorescent light of the office, and pulls the desk lamp over so it’s just warm and glowy. Then he drops down onto the couch like he owns the place, snags the remote from the coffee table, and mutters, “If I have to endure this regression crap, we’re watching The Iron Giant. It has guns and feelings.”

Wilson giggles— giggles —and snuggles into a blanket.

“…Thanks, House,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

House pretends not to hear him.

But he smiles, just a little and he lets out a pleasant hum, as he queues up the movie letting the volume rest at a comfortable 10, so they both can hear it but Wilson wont get insecure of others hearing or worse finding out about his secret.