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Synchronicity (or How Wilson Developed Migraines)
by Housepiglet
[Note: This story was partly inspired by a line in Asynca's great story, The Path of Least Resistance. Many thanks to her for allowing me to include it :)]
It just wasn't fair, thought Wilson, as he strode along the corridor towards House's room. Ninety percent of House's time was spent antagonizing colleagues, patients and their relatives alike, but all it took was one unsubstantiated rumor that he was dying and suddenly half the hospital was rushing to his door to make declarations of everlasting love! Meanwhile Wilson--unfailingly kind, considerate, and most thoughtful of colleagues and doctors--appeared to have become suspended in some sort of miserably sterile touch-free zone. Some kind of timeless and terrible hotel-room subsistence.
House had told him with gleeful satisfaction about the tearful hug he'd extracted from Chase. He'd also related the account of Cameron's surprisingly passionate advance with what--quite frankly--Wilson had considered to be a wholly inappropriate degree of irritating smugness. And if House was to be believed--and Wilson wasn't quite sure that he entirely believed him--he'd even managed to get his hands on Cuddy's ass! Wilson's eyes glazed over momentarily as he toyed with that idea, and his mind returned to the dinner date, and dwelt briefly on the memory of missed opportunities.
Anyway, it simply wasn't right! he concluded, as he drew level with the Diagnostics Department window and glanced in. What the hell did he have to do to get a hug around here? His eyes began to narrow at the injustice of it all, but just at that moment his attention was distracted by the sight of Cameron and Chase apparently playing footsie underneath the conference room table. It was that momentary inattention that led ultimately to his undoing, because in the act of rolling his eyes Wilson failed to spot either the trolley or the wheelchair converging upon him at speed from the opposite end of the corridor.
There was a startled yelp and then a resounding crash, and a moment later House looked up from his Game Boy to see the tails of Wilson's lab coat disappearing beneath the wheels of the trolley. It was several minutes later when Wilson awoke to find House's hands all over him, in all the professional places, and a most gratifying look of deep concern etched deeply upon his face. Wilson made a move to sit up, but House pushed him down again and placed a restraining hand firmly upon his chest.
"Stay there," he said. "I'm still checking you over." Then he turned with a growl to the small crowd of onlookers who'd gathered in the corridor behind him. "Okay, he's alive again. Move along there! There's nothing to see." The crowd muttered but began to disperse, and House turned back to Wilson.
"You idiot! Hold still a minute." House's tone was gruff, but his hands were uncharacteristically gentle. Wilson felt them on his face as House shone a penlight into his eyes, and on his head when House inspected the nasty gash he'd sustained in his collision with the floor. He felt them fumble at his neck as House leaned forwards to unfasten his collar, and he even felt them on his ass when House rolled him over to check for collateral damage. By the time Wilson felt House's arm settle firmly around his waist as they limped together into House's office his head had begun to spin, and it had little to do with the effects of his Grade 1 concussion.
House thought it did, though, and Wilson was in no hurry to disabuse him of the notion. He hadn't felt this wanted since his wives had lined up to sign the papers for the alimony checks! And if truth be told, he had felt a little dizzy when House had accompanied him to the bathroom later on. And if it hadn't been absolutely necessary to slide weakly to the floor upon emerging from the cubicle then no lasting harm had been done, and there was absolutely no doubt at all that the sound of House's panicked step-thump across the bathroom, and the feel of House's warm hands checking his pulses and rolling him into the recovery position, had made Wilson feel a great deal better, and very quickly indeed.
-- ----- --
It was just a pity it couldn't have continued longer, Wilson concluded, as 3 days later he unlocked his office and made his way towards his desk. The three day respite from Hospitality Hotel Hell had been more than welcome, and he'd almost come to enjoy the taste of House's burned toast and triple-max coffee in the morning. Cuddy's home visit, with accompanying fruit basket and solicitous enquiries, had been nice as well, and Hey! Even Cameron's anxious, side-long glances and offers of assistance with his charting backlog were not entirely unwelcome; at least, not to a man as starved of the warmth of simple human affection as Wilson currently was.
He should have realized it wouldn't last, though. Minutes earlier, House had seen him off at the door to the Diagnostics Department with barely a second glance, and Wilson sighed wearily as he slumped into his chair and marshaled his resources to face the massive mound of paperwork that had accumulated during his absence.
The paperwork was boring, and soon Wilson put down his file and sat back in his chair. Things were pretty dire if injury was what it took to spur House into an open expression of concern. Still--and the seeds of an idea took root in Wilson's mind, and began to expand there--perhaps the situation did have possibilities.
He thought about it further. Hmmm... How about brain cancer? Wilson knew the symptoms, and he was pretty sure he could put on a convincing performance. Well maybe not, he thought. That one had already been done. Appendicitis? Not bad while it lasted, but he'd soon be back to stage one. Asthma was a possibility, but after giving it further consideration Wilson wasn't sure that anyone would ever believe it. He briefly considered throwing himself down the steps to House's apartment, but he quickly dismissed the idea. No. What he needed was some sort of recurring condition. Something painful and sympathy-provoking, but not something actively life-threatening, or readily disprovable by a friend with access to all the latest diagnostic techniques and equipment. His head began to ache with all the unaccustomed scheming, and it was as he raised a hand to massage the back of his neck that he had the idea...
-- ----- --
Two weeks later, House lowered Wilson onto the couch at his apartment, and stepped back to dim the lamp.
"Is it any easier yet?" he asked, his face a picture of concern. He stepped forwards, and arranged a blanket carefully around Wilson's shoulders.
Wilson frowned bravely, and then managed a tiny smile. "The Sumatripan hasn't really kicked in yet. Maybe if I just lie here for a while..."
House frowned. "Late onset migraine can be very difficult to control. If the Sumatripan doesn't work we'll just have to try other medications." He looked down at Wilson for a moment, and then took a seat beside him on the couch. After a moment's hesitation he shuffled in a little closer. "Turn over," he said, and as Wilson turned onto his front House reached across and rearranged the blanket against Wilson's back.
As House's warm hand began to rub small circles across his back and shoulders, Wilson had to remind himself not to smile. He allowed his body to adapt gently to the curve of House's knees, and--ironically--it occurred to him that for the first time in longer than he could remember he was feeling no pain at all.
The End
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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