Work Text:
Wilson was sick.
It wasn’t the worst he’d ever felt, but it certainly was a rude interruption to what had otherwise been a decent evening.
He’d been at a new diner with House when it happened, bickering with him over something meaningless as usual, something he hardly even remembered now in his current state- and before he even got a chance to take a bite of his food, he’d wrenched his torso sideways and hurled all over the floor with no warning.
“You’re running a fever,” House had muttered, pressing the back of his palm to Wilson’s forehead as he choked out a string of breathless apologies to the poor, startled waiter who was more than likely going to end up working overtime to clean up his mess. “Come on. I'm taking you back to my place, it’s… closer than yours is.”
Wilson hadn’t been coherent enough to question how true that was. All he remembered was House wrapping an arm around his waist as they left the diner, and him leaning into House’s touch like it was his lifeline. And now here he lay, trembling furiously under a blanket on House’s sofa, unable to peacefully drift off to sleep for the life of him.
It was Hell.
His head was pounding and he could feel the fibers of the blanket uncomfortably chafing against every inch of his skin. He didn’t know what time it was, and he was in no state to get up and check. All he knew was that it was late, later at night than he’d care to stay up till on any other day, and he was more than likely doomed to live out the next several hours gradually drowning in a pool of his own sweat until the sun came up, or on the off chance that House woke up before that.
He almost wished House would wake up and come talk to him. He knew it probably wouldn’t help; in fact, it would probably piss him off more than anything. He was sick, and tired, and irritable, and most anyone who knew House would tell you he was a pain in the ass at any hour of the day. He was thoroughly skilled in the delicate practice of pissing people off, often doing so without even trying to (although, to his credit, he was usually trying). Wilson could name dozens of conversations- and lawsuits- off the top of his head where he’d proven just that.
That, and he couldn’t stand the thought of House seeing him like this. He’d seen enough when he’d made the choice to bring Wilson home with him, he didn’t need to see him having lost all composure like this.
Still, the need for company was a powerful thing. Normally, Wilson could resist it- resisting it was practically his default state. He could take care of himself just fine. It was others he was supposed to worry about; being an oncologist, it was others he got paid to worry about.
Right now, though, he was just loopy enough to let that need get the better of him.
He proceeded to force out a feeble series of coughs that dislodged a startling amount of phlegm from his throat, which he swallowed back down with a grimace. No chance that had woken House up, unless he was a much lighter sleeper than Wilson remembered.
Dammit, did House leave out a bowl? He turned over and leaned over the edge of the couch to peer at the coffee table and the floor.
The bowl he’d hoped for was nowhere to be seen, but as he turned, the Vicodin bottle House had left for him on the coffee table fell into his bleary line of sight. He’d forgotten that it was even there in his feverish attempt to draw attention to himself- he hardly remembered House leaving it there, then again, he hardly remembered the past few hours at all.
Wilson stared at it in disbelief for a little while. How had he missed it for so long? All he had to do to make this go away was pop a couple pills. He knew just what the drug did for House. He knew it would do something for him, too.
If he just reached out, grabbed the bottle, popped the cap off, shook two little pills into his hand and threw them down…
Slowly, painstakingly, he reached out and wrapped his fist around the bottle, one trembling finger at a time. He brought it close to his chest and tilted his head forward to get a better look. If he squinted, he could just barely make out the letters on the label spelling out “HOUSE, GREGORY” in bold.
Wilson knew what he wanted, and it wasn’t Vicodin. Not when his drug of choice was asleep in the other room.
He extended his arm again and let the vial slip from his clammy hand, bracing for the sound of it rattling as it hit the ground. This was it- either this woke House up, or nothing did. Wilson didn’t have the strength left in him to try something else, or God forbid, go shake House awake himself. He didn't even want to think about how embarrassing that would be.
His body and brain all but felt like they were going to give out on him. Maybe this was a good thing. Maybe then he’d finally have the relief he’d been looking for in the first place.
A light flickered on in the next room, derailing Wilson’s train of thought. He groaned and clamped his eyes shut; before he could open them, he heard House’s voice, groggy but distinct as always, carry down the hall.
“Can’t sleep?”
When Wilson finally opened his eyes again, he could see House leaning against the entrance of the hall across from him, clutching at his right thigh as he stared down at the Vicodin bottle still rolling on the floor, and then back at Wilson with that ever-unreadable expression of his.
House studied him for a moment, and suddenly Wilson became acutely aware of the pool of sweat he'd left on the sofa under him. He’d underestimated how helpless he’d feel, laying here whilst subject to House’s silent scrutiny. They were usually on a more level playing field.
“I’ll take your doe-eyed stare,” murmured House, with that usual hint of wryness ever-present in his voice, “as a yes.”
“I- I’m sorry, the- I dropped it by accident, I didn’t mean to wake you-” Wilson babbled, despite himself; the apology spilling out of his mouth entirely on instinct, something he’d done a million times before to put a stop to conversations he’d had no intent on having in the first place. Yes, I did. What am I talking about?
God, this was pathetic of him. He should’ve just taken the damn Vicodin and kept quiet. This was a mistake, it was selfish, and it wasn’t going to help him; it only served to make him look even more pitiful, and he could almost feel the air clearing itself to prepare for House’s psychoanalysis of whatever he’d said and done in the past minute. Any second now, he was going to reveal that he’d been awake all this time, waiting for Wilson to do exactly this, that he’d unwittingly played right into one of House’s little mind games, one of his puzzles…
To his surprise, House chose not to reply to him, instead wordlessly limping past the couch and making his way someplace outside of Wilson's line of sight.
“House, wh-what are you-”
He heard the harsh sound of a well-used bench being dragged against the floor behind him.
He heard the shuffling of cloth against leather as House adjusted.
He heard House take a deep breath.
A tender ballad filled Wilson's ears and wrapped around his heart, leaving behind a pleasantly warm feeling in his chest; not unlike that which was left over by the caress of a loved one.
House was playing piano. For him.
————————————
If you knew House solely from his compositions, you might assume he was a different sort of person than he really was. A better sort of person.
He played with such precision, like he was pouring a little bit of himself into the gaps between the keys with each performance. He could probably play just as well with his eyes closed, if he tried. He made it seem so easy.
In a way, Wilson supposed his musical prowess was the closest House would ever get to being truly perfect. To lose himself entirely in the playing and produce something flawless even still.
Wilson let his eyelids flutter closed, tuning out all else and letting the sound of House’s fingers grazing the keys flood his senses.
It wasn't that he had never heard House play before. He thought back fondly to the first time he’d heard him play an instrument. He was quite the guitarist; Wilson recalled how a wave of pleasant surprise had washed over him with each strum and each tap; how his gaze had lingered on the way House handled the frets for just a little too long…
Wilson drew himself out of his nostalgic daze to focus on present-day House’s playing again. He could’ve sworn he’d heard some of this piece before. He racked his brain trying to remember what about it felt so familiar, concentrating on each and every note and chord.
There was that one time he’d knocked on House’s door when House hadn’t been expecting him. He’d been playing piano when Wilson had knocked, a rudimentary version of the one he was playing now, and had stopped quite abruptly when he heard Wilson’s voice firmly saying “House, it’s me. Open the door already.”
House just as easily could’ve kept playing. He could’ve made Wilson use his key, just to prove that he could get away with inconveniencing him, as he usually did. In the moment, Wilson had wondered why he hadn’t, but he hadn’t felt the need to bring it up, and had gotten hopelessly distracted when House had brought up a particularly juicy piece of gossip about one of their coworkers.
In hindsight, he realized that had likely been intentional. House had been hiding the piece from him specifically. Did that mean what he thought it meant?
If he was right to assume so, then… well.
Maybe House was that person.
————————————
When House was done performing, he didn’t get up from his seat right away. Wilson lay very still and listened in on the sound of him breathing, feeling himself ever-so-gradually slipping out of consciousness with every exhale.
He thought once again about the time, not that he was likely to get his answer now, and it was a brief and trivial thought now that he was well on his way to falling asleep.
He wondered if House was looking at him- a thought that seemed much more interesting and relevant to him at the moment.
At last, House stood up, and Wilson heard the uneven, almost swing-like rhythm of his footsteps approaching. He looked up, and there was House, peering over the back frame of the couch at him as he made his way back to his room. Something about his expression suggested fondness. Something about the look in his lidded eyes.
“House,” Wilson breathed, “That piece was for me, wasn’t it?”
“Well, I call it “Ode to the Sparrow Couple that lives in my Pipes”, but hey, whatever you want to believe,” House joked quietly. Lingering in the doorway for the second time tonight, he looked at the floor, his mouth hanging ajar like he was struggling to find words for what he was going to say.
Wilson knew what he really meant. Even still, he waited patiently for House to fill in the blanks, pretending his heart wasn’t threatening to burst out his throat.
When House spoke again, he looked Wilson in the eye. “...Yeah. It’s for you.”
There it was.
House had composed a piece for him.
House. Had composed a piece. For him.
And it was beautiful.
He had so much to say to House now, so much to ask him, if only the words in his mind would arrange themselves in the right order.
Is that what you hear when you think of me?
“...Thank you.”
It was all Wilson could muster as the drowsiness slowly overcame him. He wanted nothing more than to tell House what this meant to him, to show House what this meant to him, to draw him into his mind and show him exactly what he’d done- but he knew well that even on a full night’s sleep, he wouldn't have the words for it. It pained him to think about, but it wouldn't be the first time something like this went unspoken, unacknowledged between the two of them.
(Wilson wondered if anyone else knew this softer side of House like he did. He hoped not. He liked the thought that that privilege extended to him and him alone.)
“Night, Wilson,” House said, and oh, he was smiling.
Wilson reveled in the sight as the sharp edges of House's face, complemented nicely by the uncharacteristic tenderness of his smile, grew hazy in his vision and his eyelids drifted shut for the last time that night.