Fic: Analogy (H/W), PG-13
Title: Analogy
Pairing: House/Wilson (slash or friendship - whatever you want to see)
Rating: PG
Warning: None
Summary: House has something to say.
Notes: Kindly beta'd by anotherfngrl. Thank you so, so much!
Disclaimer: I disclaim.
Wilson put the tray on the table, pulled back a chair and sank gratefully onto it. Rubbing his eyes with the heals of his hands, he sighed and pulled himself upright as if using invisible strings attached to his shoulders. He didn’t think anyone would as much as raise an eyebrow if he fell asleep, slumped over his lunch, but Wilson believed in keeping up appearances and so he felt the need to make an effort.
As he picked up his utensils and started eating, Wilson stared at the human heap seated opposite him. House obviously didn’t care how he looked like to others. He was sitting so low in his chair that his shoulders were barely looking over the table top. A plate, situated in front of him, was blatantly ignored while House’s attention was focused on his hands. He was fiddling with something Wilson wasn’t able to distinguish and it didn’t take Wilson’s curiosity long to take over.
“What’s wrong with your hand? Are you injured?”
House looked up briefly. “Nothing…”
“What happened? You seemed fine this morning.” Wilson was worried - a little. Wilson had left the condo hours before House, so he had had enough time to cut himself or pinch a finger; it wasn’t like House was being overtly careful with his body.
“Just a scratch,” House offered and Wilson nodded.
Wilson ate in silence, sometimes allowing his eyes to wander to House, always careful not to get caught. “You don’t like your fries?”
House shrugged. “Not hungry.”
“Then why did you get them in the first place?” A glance at his watch and Wilson frowned. It was already well past midday, usually House would be starving right now. He hadn't even barged into his office earlier, demanding loudly to be fed and not giving a damn what he was interrupting.
“Felt like it.”
Wilson eyed the French fries. They looked limp and greasy. The cafeteria never sold gourmet food, but…those looked cold. House had been waiting for him, apparently quite awhile.
Watching House peeling off one end of the band aid only to press it down onto his finger only seconds later, Wilson felt compelled to ask, “Are you okay? Do you need help with that?”
“It’s fine.”
Wilson rolled his eyes. Figuring there was nothing he could do for House; he pushed his chair back and stood up. There was no use postponing going back to his office and resume the battle with his ever increasing workload. This week really sucked.
“Wait.”
Wilson stopped and turned. House motioned for him to sit back down and the soft gestures, as well as House’s tone from earlier made him comply.
He forced himself not to cross his arms in front of his chest; instead he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, entwining his fingers. If he was lucky this posture appeared to be less intimidating than the one he felt like sitting in, resting back in his seat, arms crossed and scowl on his face.
House spread his fingers, allowing him to see the band aid wrapped around his index finger. Cut, then, Wilson’s mind offered without being asked.
Picking at it once more, House seemed to be lost in thought. Wilson waited, more or less patiently, struggling to keep his feet from tapping on the floor.
“It reminds me of you, you know.”
Wilson blinked, slightly taken aback. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know but found himself asking anyway. “What, the wound or the band aid?” Which one’s better?
House snickered. “You’re a pain in the ass sometimes but no, I was thinking of the band aid.”
“Uh huh,” Wilson huffed. “Wrinkled and less taut as time goes by?”
“No.”
Somewhere in there had to be a deeper meaning, Wilson was sure of it. He just had no idea what was in store for him: a hidden compliment or an insult. Wilson wasn’t keen on the insult but House giving him a compliment sounded not only unlikely but borderline disturbing.
“A band aid itself,” House mused, “can’t heal wounds.” He swallowed, and then he went on, “You apply it to keep injuries clean or to help stick cut skin together…and then you wait for the wound to heal. You need the band aid to allow the injured body part to heal at its own pace.”
Wilson waited for him to continue, but there came nothing more. Peering at House through his lashes, he frowned, his mind struggling to keep up with processing the meaning of House’s statement.
Oh.
House thought of him as his band aid.
It was a compliment after all.
THE END