Ficlet: Home Remedy
Title: Home Remedy
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Nope
Words: 1,300
Summary: Wilson has a fever; House helps. Set in an earlier season, happier time.
A/N: Written for the Sick!Wilson Meet Me in the Mess Hall challenge. I hope alcohol counts as food (it sure does in my family).
“I don’t think alcohol is a good idea. It’s dehydrating,” Wilson said, with a lot more sense than someone with a 102-degree temperature should have.
“Wilson. This is my great-aunt Martha’s sure-fire flu remedy,” House said, feigning offense. He moved closer to hover over Wilson where he lay on the couch.
“I’ve never heard you mention a great aunt Martha,” Wilson mumbled, warily eyeing the steaming mug of booze House was holding.
“Maybe that wasn’t her name,” House said, wrinkling his brow as he looked off into the distance. “It’s hard to remember. She was always giving me giant mugs of alcohol.”
Wilson threw a forearm over his eyes. “No,” he said weakly. “I don’t want it.”
“You’re pathetic,” House diagnosed. “You had a day off of work, and you wasted it lying around. But the evening is not lost yet.”
Wilson moved his arm just enough to glare at House. But his eyes were glassy, and the wonky orb was wonkier than normal, so the glare had little of its usual power. House smiled.
“One or two hot toddies and you’ll be back to your baseline level of pathetic,” he promised, holding the mug out.
Wilson sat up a little. “But I’m hot,” he whined. “And this leather couch isn’t helping.”
House sighed and sat down on the coffee table. “Do you think I’m letting your germy ass near my bed? You’re lucky I didn’t toss you out last night when you started with the, ‘Ohhh, my throat is sore. Do you have any tea?’”
“Yes, I’m a very lucky man,” Wilson agreed. Then he weakly flapped a hand. “Fine. Gimme.”
House handed the mug over, and Wilson sniffed its contents. “What’s in it?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Just bourbon, lemon, honey, water.” House paused, as if thinking. “Oh, and arsenic.”
“I hope it’s an instantly lethal dose,” Wilson muttered, before tentatively sipping his toddy.
“Not bad,” he admitted after a moment.
House smiled smugly. “My great-aunt What’s-Her-Name was a true healer.”
*******
“Hee-hee,” Wilson giggled at the TV screen, where Urkel was currently cutting a rug.
House, who was sitting in his lounge chair watching Wilson watch Urkel, bit the insides of his cheeks.
Wilson had enjoyed his first hot toddy so much he’d ordered up another. When he’d asked for a third-this time calling it a “tot hoddy”-House had been pleased to serve.
A drunk Wilson was less whiny and more fun. A drunk, feverish Wilson should be double the fun, House reasoned.
“Sooo,” he said. “Seems like you’re feeling better.”
Wilson opened his mouth, then closed it, looking confused. “Well, I feel…weirrrd.”
“Yeah, that’s normal,” House assured breezily. “What do you wanna do? We haven’t prank-called Cuddy in ages.”
Wilson furrowed his brow. “We’ve never prank-called Cuddy…Have we?”
“You don’t remember?” House asked incredulously. “It was, like, three years ago. After one of those hospital fundraisers where you tend to indulge.” House paused and gave Wilson a meaningful look.
Wilson rolled his eyes then coughed.
“Anyway, I brought you back here and you insisted on calling Cuddy. You woke her up in the middle of the night, saying-I quote-‘I’m trying to reach Mike Rotch. Can you help me?’”
Wilson’s eyes widened in horror. “I did-I did not do that!” But he looked less than convinced by his words.
“Whatever you say, Mike,” House said, shrugging.
Wilson frowned. After a beat, the frown turned into a pout as Wilson put the back of his hand on his forehead. “House,” he said, “I think I need more toddy. This one’s wearing off.”
House looked a little more closely at his friend. Wilson’s hair was in disarray and the tips were sweaty and sticking to his forehead. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes seemed even less focused than before.
House felt a pang of guilt. “I think you’re due for more ibuprofen,” he said. “Hang on.”
He limped to the kitchen and came back with the ibuprofen, a big glass of water and a thermometer. “Let’s check it again,” he said, waving the thermometer in front of Wilson.
Wilson shook his head. “Just gimme the pills.”
“Humor me,” House said, rolling his eyes. “This gives me a whole minute where you can’t talk. It’s awesome.”
Wilson pouted a bit more before conceding. A minute later, the thermometer beeped and House grabbed it from Wilson’s mouth, ignoring the “Hey!” his move elicited.
He looked at the reading: just over 103 degrees. “Shit,” he said under his breath.
“Your temp is going up,” he told Wilson, who seemed to not fully comprehend what House was saying.
“Take these.” House handed Wilson two pills and the glass of water. “I’m gonna get a bath ready for you.”
“Ugh,” Wilson said, letting his head fall back against his pillow. “House, I don’t wanna even get up. I can’t sit in a bath.”
“Your temp is past 103. A lukewarm bath might get it down. You don’t want me to have to take you in, do you?”
Wilson shook his head, a pained expression crossing his face. “No. House, don’t. I just-I don’t think I can sit in the tub.”
House sighed. “OK, c’mon.” He held his hand out to Wilson. “You should at least get off that leather inferno you’re lying on.”
“And go where?” Wilson asked, the whining tone creeping back into his voice.
“My bed, moron.”
Wilson hesitated. “But you said-”
“Yeah, yeah.” House shook his still-outstretched hand impatiently. “You’ve contaminated most of the place with your microbes. Might as well let you finish the job.”
Slowly, House helped Wilson get up and hobble to his bed-grouching along the way about the crippled having to lead the lame.
Once Wilson was deposited on the edge of the bed, House told him to take his t-shirt off.
“Huh?” was the response.
House sighed heavily. “I’m gonna get some washcloths. If you won’t take a bath…”
“Oh.” Wilson closed his eyes, and House noticed the lines of pain on his face.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, leaving the room quickly. He’d been so amused by Wilson’s dopey face just minutes ago, but now he couldn’t look at him.
When House returned with the washcloths and a bowl of water, he saw that Wilson had taken off his shirt and was lying on his back, forearm thrown over his eyes again.
House cleared his throat and went over to the bed.
“OK, ready?” he said, hearing an odd shakiness in his voice. Wilson mumbled something unintelligible.
Without another word, House started in on his task. Slowly, and possibly even gently, he moved the cooling cloth over Wilson’s pale skin.
“Roll over,” he said quietly, nudging Wilson’s ribs. As Wilson gradually moved, House took the opportunity to complain. “You’re making me get my sheets all wet, you know.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Wilson muttered into the pillow, now fully lying on his belly.
House smiled a genuine smile because it wouldn't been seen. Before he laid the washcloth back on Wilson’s skin, House lightly kissed him between the shoulder blades.
“I always let you back in my bed, don’t I?” he whispered close to Wilson’s ear.
Wilson turned his head slightly so his cheek was on the pillow. “Let?” he asked.
House started trailing the washcloth down his back. “Let. Get. The words are very similar.”
Wilson huffed a small laugh, and House could feel him shiver slightly. Whether it was from the fever or something else, House didn’t know. But something moved him to speak.
“I’m sorry I made your fever go up by plying you with alcohol,” he said to Wilson’s back.
Wilson was silent for a moment before saying softly, “S’okay. You’ll make it up to me?”
House felt himself smiling again. “Absolutely.”
End
ETA: Ed note: I stole the "Mike Rotch" reference from Bart Simpson, the source of much of my inspiration.
Pairing: House/Wilson
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Nope
Words: 1,300
Summary: Wilson has a fever; House helps. Set in an earlier season, happier time.
A/N: Written for the Sick!Wilson Meet Me in the Mess Hall challenge. I hope alcohol counts as food (it sure does in my family).
“I don’t think alcohol is a good idea. It’s dehydrating,” Wilson said, with a lot more sense than someone with a 102-degree temperature should have.
“Wilson. This is my great-aunt Martha’s sure-fire flu remedy,” House said, feigning offense. He moved closer to hover over Wilson where he lay on the couch.
“I’ve never heard you mention a great aunt Martha,” Wilson mumbled, warily eyeing the steaming mug of booze House was holding.
“Maybe that wasn’t her name,” House said, wrinkling his brow as he looked off into the distance. “It’s hard to remember. She was always giving me giant mugs of alcohol.”
Wilson threw a forearm over his eyes. “No,” he said weakly. “I don’t want it.”
“You’re pathetic,” House diagnosed. “You had a day off of work, and you wasted it lying around. But the evening is not lost yet.”
Wilson moved his arm just enough to glare at House. But his eyes were glassy, and the wonky orb was wonkier than normal, so the glare had little of its usual power. House smiled.
“One or two hot toddies and you’ll be back to your baseline level of pathetic,” he promised, holding the mug out.
Wilson sat up a little. “But I’m hot,” he whined. “And this leather couch isn’t helping.”
House sighed and sat down on the coffee table. “Do you think I’m letting your germy ass near my bed? You’re lucky I didn’t toss you out last night when you started with the, ‘Ohhh, my throat is sore. Do you have any tea?’”
“Yes, I’m a very lucky man,” Wilson agreed. Then he weakly flapped a hand. “Fine. Gimme.”
House handed the mug over, and Wilson sniffed its contents. “What’s in it?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Just bourbon, lemon, honey, water.” House paused, as if thinking. “Oh, and arsenic.”
“I hope it’s an instantly lethal dose,” Wilson muttered, before tentatively sipping his toddy.
“Not bad,” he admitted after a moment.
House smiled smugly. “My great-aunt What’s-Her-Name was a true healer.”
*******
“Hee-hee,” Wilson giggled at the TV screen, where Urkel was currently cutting a rug.
House, who was sitting in his lounge chair watching Wilson watch Urkel, bit the insides of his cheeks.
Wilson had enjoyed his first hot toddy so much he’d ordered up another. When he’d asked for a third-this time calling it a “tot hoddy”-House had been pleased to serve.
A drunk Wilson was less whiny and more fun. A drunk, feverish Wilson should be double the fun, House reasoned.
“Sooo,” he said. “Seems like you’re feeling better.”
Wilson opened his mouth, then closed it, looking confused. “Well, I feel…weirrrd.”
“Yeah, that’s normal,” House assured breezily. “What do you wanna do? We haven’t prank-called Cuddy in ages.”
Wilson furrowed his brow. “We’ve never prank-called Cuddy…Have we?”
“You don’t remember?” House asked incredulously. “It was, like, three years ago. After one of those hospital fundraisers where you tend to indulge.” House paused and gave Wilson a meaningful look.
Wilson rolled his eyes then coughed.
“Anyway, I brought you back here and you insisted on calling Cuddy. You woke her up in the middle of the night, saying-I quote-‘I’m trying to reach Mike Rotch. Can you help me?’”
Wilson’s eyes widened in horror. “I did-I did not do that!” But he looked less than convinced by his words.
“Whatever you say, Mike,” House said, shrugging.
Wilson frowned. After a beat, the frown turned into a pout as Wilson put the back of his hand on his forehead. “House,” he said, “I think I need more toddy. This one’s wearing off.”
House looked a little more closely at his friend. Wilson’s hair was in disarray and the tips were sweaty and sticking to his forehead. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes seemed even less focused than before.
House felt a pang of guilt. “I think you’re due for more ibuprofen,” he said. “Hang on.”
He limped to the kitchen and came back with the ibuprofen, a big glass of water and a thermometer. “Let’s check it again,” he said, waving the thermometer in front of Wilson.
Wilson shook his head. “Just gimme the pills.”
“Humor me,” House said, rolling his eyes. “This gives me a whole minute where you can’t talk. It’s awesome.”
Wilson pouted a bit more before conceding. A minute later, the thermometer beeped and House grabbed it from Wilson’s mouth, ignoring the “Hey!” his move elicited.
He looked at the reading: just over 103 degrees. “Shit,” he said under his breath.
“Your temp is going up,” he told Wilson, who seemed to not fully comprehend what House was saying.
“Take these.” House handed Wilson two pills and the glass of water. “I’m gonna get a bath ready for you.”
“Ugh,” Wilson said, letting his head fall back against his pillow. “House, I don’t wanna even get up. I can’t sit in a bath.”
“Your temp is past 103. A lukewarm bath might get it down. You don’t want me to have to take you in, do you?”
Wilson shook his head, a pained expression crossing his face. “No. House, don’t. I just-I don’t think I can sit in the tub.”
House sighed. “OK, c’mon.” He held his hand out to Wilson. “You should at least get off that leather inferno you’re lying on.”
“And go where?” Wilson asked, the whining tone creeping back into his voice.
“My bed, moron.”
Wilson hesitated. “But you said-”
“Yeah, yeah.” House shook his still-outstretched hand impatiently. “You’ve contaminated most of the place with your microbes. Might as well let you finish the job.”
Slowly, House helped Wilson get up and hobble to his bed-grouching along the way about the crippled having to lead the lame.
Once Wilson was deposited on the edge of the bed, House told him to take his t-shirt off.
“Huh?” was the response.
House sighed heavily. “I’m gonna get some washcloths. If you won’t take a bath…”
“Oh.” Wilson closed his eyes, and House noticed the lines of pain on his face.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, leaving the room quickly. He’d been so amused by Wilson’s dopey face just minutes ago, but now he couldn’t look at him.
When House returned with the washcloths and a bowl of water, he saw that Wilson had taken off his shirt and was lying on his back, forearm thrown over his eyes again.
House cleared his throat and went over to the bed.
“OK, ready?” he said, hearing an odd shakiness in his voice. Wilson mumbled something unintelligible.
Without another word, House started in on his task. Slowly, and possibly even gently, he moved the cooling cloth over Wilson’s pale skin.
“Roll over,” he said quietly, nudging Wilson’s ribs. As Wilson gradually moved, House took the opportunity to complain. “You’re making me get my sheets all wet, you know.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Wilson muttered into the pillow, now fully lying on his belly.
House smiled a genuine smile because it wouldn't been seen. Before he laid the washcloth back on Wilson’s skin, House lightly kissed him between the shoulder blades.
“I always let you back in my bed, don’t I?” he whispered close to Wilson’s ear.
Wilson turned his head slightly so his cheek was on the pillow. “Let?” he asked.
House started trailing the washcloth down his back. “Let. Get. The words are very similar.”
Wilson huffed a small laugh, and House could feel him shiver slightly. Whether it was from the fever or something else, House didn’t know. But something moved him to speak.
“I’m sorry I made your fever go up by plying you with alcohol,” he said to Wilson’s back.
Wilson was silent for a moment before saying softly, “S’okay. You’ll make it up to me?”
House felt himself smiling again. “Absolutely.”
End
ETA: Ed note: I stole the "Mike Rotch" reference from Bart Simpson, the source of much of my inspiration.