Just a short one shot I worked on for my fave hilson blog! Let me know what you think!
“Get off me.” House grumbled from beneath the pile of blankets he retreated to.
“No.” Wilson retorted, staying out with his arms around his shoulders and legs wrapped around his torso, effectively doing his best impression of an octopus. He’d long grown used to House’s rough exterior, learned how to read the signs for what they were. He knew that when his boyfriend was in pain, the first thing he did was put up a front of coldness and anger. Somewhat like a porcupine, he thought amusedly, a defense mechanism. Keeping others away was easier, spared him even more pain, so over the years he’d made it into a talent. He supposed he didn’t really want to scare Wilson off, but half a lifetime of doing just that was almost impossible to break. So, Wilson learned to just ignore it. He grew immune to his jabs, his vicious words, everything he used to drive others off- he supposed he wasn’t really immune, just able to see through it.
“Don’t you have some cancer kids you have to hand out death sentences to?” He snapped, wrapping the afghan further around himself. His leg was killing him, white hot bolts of pain shooting throughout his body.
“I have the day off.” Wilson replied nonchalantly, moving one hand up to stroke House’s hair. It was wavy and curled up when the humidity outside skyrocketed- and even though it was short at the moment, he still loved running his fingers through it.
House groaned, burying his face further into the pillow on their couch. “I thought you loved me.” He said in a betrayed tone, voice muffled from beneath the fabric.
“I do.” The oncologist reaffirmed, planting a kiss on his head to prove his point. “When was your last dose?” He asked lowly, referring to the vicodin.
House finally realizing that James wasn’t going anywhere, dropped his facade and leaned against him in resignation. “10 minutes ago.” He said roughly, rubbing at the scar on his thigh in misery.
Wilson winced sympathetically, burying his face in the crook of House’s neck. “I’m sorry, bud.” He whispered affectionately, continuing to rub his back and hair, “Wanna talk? It can be about anything you want.”
‘Talk’ had grown to be a synonym for the process of distraction they’d often use when vicodin no longer cut it. Initially House had brushed it off as a stupid technique they’d pull on patients, claiming he was too smart for it to ever work on him. And, maybe he was. But after a while, (and even though he’d never admit it to anyone), he found that divulging in a deep conversation with someone could take his mind off the agony for a bit. But only for a bit. The brief moment of refuge, however, was worth it, and many a nights he found themselves talking. They’d hold long, deep, intellectual conversations about anything and everything- patients, work, politics, sports, the news, their lives… whatever was interesting at the time. Some nights it would be in bed, after they’d turned out the light, breathless from kissing.
A small, tiny, almost imperceptible smirk quirked the corner of House’s lips. “Why are you such a minx?” He murmured deeply, laughing against Wilson’s lips as he pressed them to his in a kiss.
“Just the way I am.” Wilson replied, the tips of their noses still bumping together, “Now, a guy came in the ER today while I was on clinic duty with a snapping turtle latched on his neck, about an inch from his coronary. He was more concerned about saving the damned thing than his own life… how would you handle that?”
They talked long after House’s pain went away.
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