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Kissing Disease
by hilsonlover
"House!" Wilson whined while trying to pry his eyes open and pushing House's hands out of his briefs. "I'm tired, let me sleep!"
"You've slept for 10 hours straight! You've done nothing but work, eat and sleep for the past 10 days!" House grouses in exasperation.
He's still groping in Wilson's briefs but pulls his hand away when he discovers that Wilson is completely flaccid. He's annoyed - he hasn't gotten laid in over a week and is incredibly horny. Grumpily he adds, "You can't seriously be that tired all the time! You're usually the biggest competition to the energizer bunny!"
Wilson finally opens his eyes to small slits and laboredly rolls from his side to his back. He's more exhausted than he has ever been before; he can practically feel every bone of his body and his throat has been scratchy for over a week now. But of course it's way more important to provide House with sexual gratification than for him to feel well. Wilson is getting angry and this in combination with an annoyed and sexual deprived House isn't the greatest thing early in the morning. Wilson musters up all his patience before he retorts, "Even the energizer bunny needs his batteries recharged from time to time. I'm sorry House. I think I'm really sick."
House harrumphs and scowls at Wilson who forces a small smile on his face. His face is ashen except for the red spots on his cheeks, the hair is sleep-tousled and House has to admit that he certainly looks drained. He lays a hand on Wilson's forehead and sighs. Wilson seems to be right; he's sick and sound asleep again without waiting for a retort from House.
House frowns and drags himself out of bed. He takes his morning pill and limps to the bathroom where he gets rid of his hard-on with a few rough strokes, creating a tight channel with his hands. He's imagining Wilson writhing beneath him while he's pounding him into the surface, making him scream House's name over and over again. His orgasm hits him unexpectedly hard and it takes him a few minutes to clean himself up and trust his legs to carry him.
Back in the bedroom he sits next to Wilson and tucks the thermometer under Wilson's armpit. Wilson doesn't stir which gives House time to inspect him closely. The color of the circles under Wilson's eyes are a mixture of purple and black, the face is a chalky white and the cheekbones are even more accentuated than usual. The beep of the thermometer startles House and he draws in a deep breath when he looks at the display. It's showing a temperature of 101.7 F which translates into no proper sex for a few more days ...
Since Wilson is feverish and asleep House decides to take a shower and actually be nice. After the shower he brews himself a cup of coffee and Wilson a cup of tea. He even butters some slices of toast and carries everything to the bedroom. He needs to walk back and forth four times and is ranting at himself for the dumb idea of wanting to be nice.
It takes him a while to wake up Wilson and persuade him to eat and drink something. Wilson is so out of everything that he doesn't even acknowledge House's act of sacrifice; being nice and bringing him breakfast in bed. This is the point when House starts to worry. He inspects Wilson more closely and wonders how he could have overseen that Wilson lost weight. The long-sleeved shirt is dangling more loosely than before, his arms look downright thin and his face is haggard. House feels uncomfortable; isn't he normally the one who's so observant about Wilson that it borders on morbid obsession? If he was someone else he would think that this unpleasant feeling is a pang of guilt at all his attempts to get literally into Wilson's pants during the last days. Especially since Wilson made it perfectly clear that he wasn't in the mood because he felt sick.
House focuses his attention back on Wilson. He grimaces when Wilson winces at every sip of his tea. His throat must really hurt and after a few sips he sets the cup back on the nightstand. The toast remains untouched. Wilson thanks House for the tea in a hoarse voice, then starts to slide down under the blankets again.
"Does your throat hurt?"
"Yeah," Wilson answers in a small voice.
"Let me have a look," House demands.
Glassy brown eyes stare at him in horror. "Uh, no, thanks," Wilson finally stammers out.
"Why not? The fever might be caused from tonsillitis and you'd need antibiotics then," House argues further.
"It's just a cold with a sore throat," Wilson laments.
"Are you afraid of me looking in your throat?" House asks incredulous. "I've had my tongue deep down your throat and some other body parts as well. So, can we skip the shy-guy bit?"
"I don't have a fever," Wilson retorts rather petulantly and snuggles himself more tightly into the blankets.
"An hour ago your temperature was almost 102 F. You slept when I measured it."
Wilson stares at him, trying to comprehend House's last statement. House sighs, reaches into the bag he brought with him earlier and gets a pen-light and a wooden spatula out.
"Now, say 'Aaaah', will you?" House quips.
Wilson presses his lips together to a firm line and shakes his head. House frowns in pure exasperation, "That's not very mature of you."
His answer is a shrug of Wilson's shoulder but his mouth stays firmly shut. House puts the supplies aside, smiling when he sees Wilson relaxing again. He retrieves the thermometer and puts it under Wilson's armpit. Thankfully Wilson doesn't put up a fight. When House reads the numerics on the display his worry increases, the fever is now at 102.7 F. A whole point rise in merely one hour, that's not good. He shows the display to Wilson who blinks in confusion. As he opens his mouth to say something House takes the opportunity and a split second later the spatula is in place. While House shines with the pen-light into Wilson's mouth he's almost retching on the sudden intrusion. Clumsily he tries to turn his head and push House's hands away from his face but he's so damn weak that House has no problem holding him in place.
Wilson wipes his mouth with a sleeve of his shirt when House pulls the spatula out, ranting at him, "Was that really necessary?"
"It was. Your tonsils are swollen and coated with pus, hence the fever. Do you think you can get along for an hour without me? I'll get you an antibiotic," House rambles. If Wilson is getting sick he's doing it the big way. "I'll get you some Advil before I go."
House heads for the bathroom to get the Advil and is startled when two feverish and shaky arms encircle him from behind. A whiny Wilson tells him, "House, I'm sick."
"You don't say! Why don't you stay in bed then?"
"Have to use the toilet," Wilson mumbles and staggers over to the toilet. He's so weak he even needs to sit down to pee. House has enough wits together to leave the bathroom beforehand.
Wilson almost trips over his own feet on his walk back to the bed. He's chilled to the bones from his little trip to the bathroom and his teeth are chattering violently. He wants to lie down immediately and snuggle under the warmth of the blankets but House prevents him from doing so.
"Take the Advil," he suggests softly.
Wilson eyes the pill warily, then whines, "I ... I don't think I can swallow that."
House prods until he gives in. Eventually and with tears stinging his eyes he swallows the pill. His throat really hurts like a bitch! House tucks the blanket around Wilson's shivering body and gets up to get another blanket out of the closet. He lays it on top and brushes some strands of hair out of Wilson's face before kissing him on a burning cheek. Only five minutes later Wilson is asleep again.
House doesn't feel very comfortable with leaving Wilson alone but he has to drive to a pharmacy to get the antibiotics. Yet, he has the feeling that something isn't right. A queasy feeling of overwhelming worry is nagging at him.
XXXXX
House bursts through his front-door with an angry litany of obscenities about cops on his lips. He didn't drive that fast! Wilson will pay for his ticket - it's the least he can do if House sacrifices himself for Wilson's health. He's still ranting when he limps into the kitchen to make the oral solution. Since it was so difficult for Wilson to swallow the Advil-pill House decided to act extremely considerate and get the antibiotic in the form of an oral solution.
While he fills the bottle with water and firmly shakes it, he hears irritating noises. Through his anger it takes him a moment to identify the noises as moans and whimpers coming from the direction of the bedroom. Hastily he finishes his task and heads for the bedroom. Wilson is trashing in bed, whimpering and moaning at every movement. The fever has obviously increased during House's absence.
House sits down on the edge of the bed, setting the bottle and the spoon on the nightstand. Gently he lays a hand on Wilson's shoulder, feeling the abnormal body-heat burning his hand. It takes him almost ten minutes to get a reaction from Wilson and he wills down the panic which is rising in his chest. Finally Wilson blinks at him from glazed eyes.
"Hey, I got the antibiotic but you have to sit up to take it," House says softly.
House is startled when tears roll down Wilson's cheek and he sobs, "N-no pills. H-hurts."
"I got you an oral solution, you big baby. Now come on, sit up."
Wilson isn't able to coordinate his arms to wipe away the tears, much less sit up. House sighs and wipes off the tears, then loops an arm around Wilson's upper body and hauls him up into a sitting position. He has to steady him against his own body because Wilson has no strength left in him at all. House hates this situation, hates being powerless and seeing Wilson in this weak condition. Foremost he hates the feeling of panic rushing back.
At least he's able to arrange them in a position where he's able to hold Wilson upright and give him the solution. House winces at Wilson's whimper when he swallows the solution. Tentatively he helps Wilson to lie down again. He has to fight harder against the re-rising panic at seeing the display of the thermometer showing 104.0 F. He reminds himself that it's just tonsillitis and that Wilson is prone to high fever whenever he gets sick. In 24 hours the antibiotic will work and the fever will go down.
Wilson is asleep again in a matter of a second but keeps trashing around in bed. House makes himself comfortable on his side of the bed with some magazines. He would get more rest in the living room but it's just too uncomfortable to get up all the time to look after Wilson and tuck the blankets back around him.
XXXXX
House makes himself sandwiches during the day and forces drops of fluid into Wilson. House can't even come up with a scathing remark when Wilson starts to sob and begs him to take the cup of tea away.
After a few hours he has to help Wilson to go to the bathroom which is a real challenge because Wilson is shaking violently and can barely walk. House's leg is already hurting when they arrive in the bathroom. This time he isn't able to give Wilson that last bit of privacy. He pulls down Wilson's sweat-pants and briefs before he lowers him to the toilet seat. House isn't sure if the fever is the sole reason for the red spots on Wilson's cheeks.
Quietly he undresses Wilson completely, feeling pity as he discovers cruel shivers leading a relentless regime over Wilson's body. Wilson sobs again when House quickly washes him with a warm wash-cloth, then rubs him dry with a towel. House is swallowing hard; he has never seen Wilson in such a bad condition before and it's more and more tearing at his heart. Finally Wilson is dressed again in briefs, thin sweatpants and a thin long-sleeved shirt so they're able to stagger back to the bedroom.
In the bedroom House tells Wilson to lie down on House's side of the bed for a moment because he has to change the linen. Not only had Wilson's clothes been drenched in sweat but the sheets had been as well. While House changes the linen Wilson rolls sideways and curls himself in a small ball, radiating misery and sickness; the heavy shiver which shake his body makes the bed rattle.
House's face contorts in worry and sympathy. He doesn't even fight against his emotions being visible - Wilson's eyes are shut anyway. He hurries up with the linen and helps Wilson to roll over on his side of the bed, tucking him in like a little child. He spoons behind Wilson, holds his glowing body and rubs circles with his fingertips soothingly on his arms. House stays like this for a long time, pondering his relationship with Wilson and what it means to him. His thoughts are getting more and more dark as he wonders what would happen if Wilson dies. He's completely irrational but can't put a stop to his whirling thoughts until he hears himself giving a choked sob. Rationalization floods back when he reminds himself that it's just a fucking tonsillitis!
He's angry at himself and carefully extricates himself from Wilson. He decides that he's in dire need of distraction and that Wilson will be fine for an hour without him. He starts to play the piano and thankfully it helps him to relax. Afterwards he makes himself another sandwich and watches a game before heading back to the bedroom with another cup of tea.
When he wakes Wilson to feed him the next spoonful of solution Wilson doesn't sob, he actually cries. House is at a loss for words, especially when Wilson struggles against him in fear. He shoves the pang of guilt aside while gripping Wilson tightly around his torso and hauling him upright. Fortunately Wilson is too weak to put up a real fight and House is able to administer the medication without problems. At least if you don't count the crying, begging and choking as a problem.
House helps Wilson back under the blankets and measures his temperature again. He can't suppress a gasp at seeing the display showing 104.5 F. Like a mantra he repeats, "Tonsillitis. Only tonsillitis. Antibiotics need time to work. No need to freak out."
XXXXX
Next day
The mantra doesn't work though. He only dozes during the night while Wilson thrashes around in bed. House ignores the tears and pleas the next morning and administers the solution into Wilson. He's almost gnashing his teeth when he reads the display of the thermometer; it's showing 105.1 F. With a grim expression he decides to give Wilson's fever maximal two more hours to decline before transferring him to the hospital.
Restlessly House paces through the apartment for the next hour. After an hour he takes Wilson's temperature again which is exactly the same as before. House gets a bag and packs some of Wilson's clothes and toiletries in it. While he's in the bathroom he catches a reflection of himself in the mirror and flinches at seeing deep lines of worry chiseled in his face. In pure sarcasm he purses his lips and sends his reflection a kiss.
This is when the epiphany finally hits him.
He drops his head in a mixture of relief at probably having found the cause of Wilson's illness and annoyance at having made the most common false diagnosis of tonsillitis. It has to be the kissing disease or mononucleosis if you want to express it in a more medical term; although Wilson presumably didn't get mononucleosis from a kiss but rather from a cough or sneeze by an infected person. Given Wilson's history it's kind of ironic that he didn't catch mononucleosis earlier. Of course House still needs to prove his theory but the symptoms fit perfectly.
House walks back to the bedroom and takes in the sight of Wilson lying limply on the bed, breathing shallowly. Temperature shows 105.4 F and Wilson doesn't react at all. A fever in such high dimensions isn't normal for mononucleosis; maybe Wilson combined it with tonsillitis. He never does anything the easy way when he gets ill, House thinks sourly. Anyway he can't keep Wilson at home in this condition, he's dehydrated and turning apathetic.
House calling an ambulance is only successful at his third attempt when he finally wins the fight against his shaking fingers. Mononucleosis isn't a severe illness, mostly at least, but Wilson's apathetic condition is scaring House more than he likes to admit even to himself.
The ambulance arrives fast and the paramedics listen attentively to House's explanation before they hook Wilson up to an IV drip with fluids. They also give him a shot of Tylenol to get the fever down and release some of the pain. Wilson's only reaction is to whimper softly when the needles pierce his skin. Wilson starts to shake violently on the gurney and the paramedics lay a rescue blanket on top of him before they strap him onto the gurney.
During the ride to PPTH House calls Cuddy and his fellow doctors, informing them in advance. He puts on his best stoic face but apparently he's doing something wrong as the female paramedic pats his arm in sympathy. He seriously hates it when Wilson gets sick.
XXXXX
They bring Wilson into a separate room and take blood samples. Chase has to fixate Wilson's arm while Foreman draws the blood because Wilson struggles to get his arm released. No words soothe him; he's pretty much out of everything, fighting against fever induced hallucinations. Only when House sits down on the bed, entwines their fingers and brushes some sweaty strands of hair out of Wilson's face, he complies. House ignores the curious looks of his fellow doctors; he's solely focused on Wilson.
To take a swab of the pus on Wilson's tonsils is an even more interesting experience. Wilson keeps his mouth firmly shut and even presses his hands against his mouth.
"James! Don't be such a baby! We're fairly sure that you have mononucleosis but your fever is extremely high. We have to make sure that you don't have tonsillitis as a secondary infection because you would need an antibiotic then. Now open your mouth so we can take the swab," House scolds him. He's barely able to hold his temper in check.
Wilson shakes his head and rolls on his side, away from House. Chase and Foreman exchange a worried look when they see their boss setting his jaw and his eyes blazing up with fierce determination. He beckons Foreman over and says, "You'll take the swab and be quick."
Wilson squeaks in fear when House hauls him up, bends his neck back and forces him to open his mouth in painful surprise. House is having a hard time keeping a grip on him but thankfully Foreman is quick. Chase looks over to Cameron who's staring at House in utter shock while he feels simply uncomfortable. With a harsh command he sends the three to the lab, to do the required tests.
Wilson is suddenly retching hard until it changes over into puking bile. He's shaking violently and blinks at House in fear and embarrassment. He keeps his eyes averted while the summoned nurses get him out of bed, clean everything up and get him a new bed. He still doesn't look at House when the very same begins to undress him and helps a nurse to clean him up. He can't bring up enough will or strength to put up a fight.
He huddles down in the fresh blanket as soon as he lies down after all the cleaning, still facing away from House. When the nurses are gone House limps over to the bed and sits down on the edge of the side where Wilson's face is. Wilson starts to roll on his other side but is stopped by House.
"James, look at me," he demands in a soft tone. It quickly turns into a harsh command when Wilson looks at everything but House. "God, damnit! Will you look at me!"
House takes Wilson's chin in his hand, feeling his guts coil up when Wilson flinches, obviously expecting to get slapped. Not that House had ever done such a thing before but it's not an uncommon reaction of Wilson when he feels intimidated by House. He still has to get to the bottom of this behavior, just not now.
House bends down and places tender kisses on Wilson's right cheek, then the left, goes on to his nose and ends on his forehead. He feels Wilson shudder while weak and trembling arms wrap around his upper body.
"We had to take the swab, you know that."
It's not an apology but nonetheless Wilson nods. He's holding Wilson's face in his hands, looking into glazed brown eyes and before he knows what he's doing he blurts, "You're scaring me in this condition. I just want you to get better. It wasn't my intention to humiliate you."
He can't help the squeak in his voice and honestly, he doesn't care. He doesn't want this anxious, weak and haggard looking copy of Wilson. House wants back the Wilson he's used to, the one who gives back as good as he gets, the one who's able to turn House into a hormone-driven teenager within seconds while only batting his eyes at him.
House strokes his thumbs along Wilson's cheekbones, then whispers into his ear, "Go to sleep. I'll stay with you."
Pliant lips brush a kiss on House's stubbly jaw, the grip around his body loosens immediately and in a blink of an eye Wilson is sound asleep again. House tucks the blanket around him properly, then makes himself comfortable in a chair and switches the TV, keeping the volume low.
Half an hour later Foreman informs him that Wilson indeed has an accompanying strep infection which is going to be treated with an antibiotic given through the IV drip. For the result of the antibody test they have to wait until the next day.
Wilson's temperature stays constantly around 105 F during the night and the next day. Walks to the toilet he can only do with support from nurses; his face burning with shame every time. House's suggestion of peeing into a bottle or getting a bladder-catheter is regarded with the darkest scowl Wilson is able manage.
Later on the result of the antibody test comes back positive. House sighs in relief although he still doesn't like Wilson's condition one single bit. He more or less camps in Wilson's room and refuses to go home. Miraculously his recliner shows up late in the evening of the second day while he's getting himself some food.
XXXXX
Five days later
It takes Wilson five more days until the fever is down to 100 F. He's weak and barely able to sit up alone but wolfs down his first real meal in delight. He still has the needle from the drip sticking in his vein as a precaution but got hooked off it that morning.
House tells him all the important and unimportant things which happened during the last days, in between mocking Wilson for not looking like his usual spic and span self. Wilson rolls his eyes in amusement which fades a bit when he cards his hands through his greasy hair. He crinkles his nose in disgust, "Maybe I could ask one of the nurses to help me take a shower." At seeing anger boiling up in House over his statement he hastily adds, "Or at least wash my hair."
House grumpily agrees and stands guards while one of the nurses helps Wilson get to the bathroom, sit down on a stool and then washes his hair. Although he has to admit that the freshly washed hair is a much better look on Wilson he won't ever admit that loud.
He's pulled from his thoughts of Wilson's hair and other satisfying things when Wilson suddenly gasps and presses his hands against the left side of his upper abdomen. All color has left Wilson's face and House's face decides to do the same. He ushers the nurse to settle Wilson down in the bed and quickly get him an ultrasound-machine.
"You ... you don't think that I ruptured my spleen, do you?" Wilson grunts out while curling himself into a tight ball, gasping and blinking through the veil of tears of pain.
More nurses rush into the room and help to uncurl Wilson who can't hold back the tears and the sobs anymore. He feels like someone is slicing through his abdomen with a very sharp knife. House takes the ultrasound of Wilson's abdomen with a grim face, then bellows commands.
He limps next to Wilson's bed while he is wheeled into the direction of the OR, explaining to Wilson, "Your spleen is enlarged and ruptured. You are bleeding heavily; they have to take it out. You really don't leave anything out with this, huh?"
He's choking the last line out, his throat is suddenly so tight and he can't fight against the surge of panic. Everything is happening in a quick but professional manner and too soon for House's taste as he bends over Wilson to kiss him. The obvious fear in Wilson's eyes is almost his undoing. It's only a platitude but nonetheless he croaks, "You'll be alright. You're in good hands."
Wilson blinks against the tears in his eyes, kisses the knuckles of his hand, then blows the imaginary kiss over to House. It's the last thing House sees of Wilson for hours.
XXXXX
"House?" a tired Chase drags House out of his gloomy world of thoughts. House doesn't even try to keep up a facade, the worry and fear is deeply etched into his face.
"He's fine. We had to take the spleen out. The bleeding was immense and he'll be very weak for a long time," Chase explains.
"He was already weak before the operation. He'll need weeks to recover," House talks more or less to himself. He's gasping for air as he gets up and a bolt of pain rushes through him. He remembers that he forgot to take his pills and catches up with two at once.
Chase accompanies him to Wilson's new room in the Intensive Care Unit. He is startled when House's knees begin to buckle at seeing Wilson hooked to the various machines, tubes leading to drips with fluids, painkillers and blood. The low noise of the ventilator and the beeps of the machines are the only sounds to be heard.
Chase is able to catch House before his legs give out completely. He's leaning heavily on Chase, not able to get a grip on himself. Tears are flowing and House's whole body is trembling. Chase has never seen him this devastated before and he had never expected to see his boss in this condition - ever. Awkwardly he pats House on the shoulder and repeats, "He'll be fine. It looks worse than it is. We can probably take him off the ventilator in a few hours."
House's eyes are glued to Wilson's ashen and sunken face, wishing he could cradle him in his arms and turn back the clock, never letting all this shit happen. Suddenly he remembers that Chase is still there and keeps asking him if he's okay. He isn't, of course, but nods nonetheless. Chase isn't convinced but leaves when House snaps at him.
House takes one of Wilson's limp hands in his own and strokes his thumb along the back, whispering reassuring words until he finally begs him to never get ill again. After an hour he has no words left and his voice is hoarse. He stays quiet and just sits there, stroking Wilson's hand, his mind blank, waiting for Wilson to wake up.
XXXXX
Three days later
"If you are going to bring me more chocolate or sweets I'll gain twenty pounds before I leave the hospital," Wilson mumbles around a mouthful of Belgian pralines.
"Fearing you're going to lose your boyish figure?"
"Something like that."
"You lost so much weight that you can afford to gain some pounds back."
"That ... was somehow ... sweet of you to say," Wilson says while making the difficult decision between a praline covered in white or milk chocolate.
"You know me. I always say the sweetest things," House quips.
"Uh, actually no. I didn't know that," Wilson's eyes sparkle in amusement before he adds playfully, "Are you mellowing?"
House doesn't answer. Instead he gets up from his chair, puts the box of pralines aside and sits down on the bed with a predatory look on his face. Wilson's eyes are getting wider and he chuckles nervously, "What are you doing?"
"I'm mellowing," House answers before cupping Wilson's face in his hands and kissing him, slipping his tongue into Wilson's mouth, tasting chocolate-flavored sweetness. Wilson's hands are digging into House's biceps, his eyes are closed in utter bliss and he's giving soft moans of appreciation. When the need of getting oxygen into his lungs is overwhelming House rests his forehead against Wilson's and pants, "If you're ever going to scare me again like you did during the last two weeks I'll give you the hardest hiding you ever got."
"I really love how you express your worry," Wilson chimes in, a lopsided smile showing up in his face.
House's expression changes to an earnest and sincere one when he admits, "You scared the living hell out of me. I don't want to repeat this experience."
Wilson is at a loss for words so he places a tender kiss on House's lips, loops his arms around House's neck and nestles his head against a shoulder. House rubs with his hands over Wilson's back, relishing in the feeling of Wilson being here in his arms, safe again. He knows that Wilson will need a lot of support during the next weeks; he will be exhausted easily and it can take months for him to recover fully. But the only important thing is that he's alive and securely cradled in House's arms.
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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