Fic: The Migraine (2/2)

[teyla]

Title: The Migraine (Part 2/2)
Author: T'eyla
Rating: PG-13 for language
Summary: Wilson has a migraine. House tries to help. Mayhem ensues.

Click for part 1

---

House felt movement beside him and opened his eyes. He'd been more or less awake for some time, his leg having woken him up a couple of hours ago, and the throbbing pain hadn't really relented even after he'd taken his morning pill. He knew he was paying for spending the night on the bedroom floor.

He hadn't tried to get up, but had kept his eyes closed, letting himself drift in and out of wakefulness. When he finally felt Wilson stir beside him, he turned his head and saw a tousled head emerge from underneath the blanket.

"Mornin'," he said. Wilson grunted; then groaned and turned around to squint at House.

"House?" Wilson's voice was thick and husky with sleep. "What's going on?"

"Depends," House said. "How are you feeling?"

Wilson lay back down on the pillow and stared at the ceiling for a moment. "My head is killing me," he said then.

"You can't still have that migraine!" House said, and Wilson winced at his loud voice.

"Not a migraine," he said. There was a stretch of silence before Wilson spoke up again. "House," he said, "you are an utter ass. I really don't know why I put up with you." His tone was rather serious, and House felt a small twinge of remorse before the usual cynicism took over. He turned his head and gave Wilson a saccharine smile.

"Because you just love me that much," he said. Wilson only turned his head and glared; then he shoved the blanket aside and awkwardly got to his feet. For a moment he looked as if he were going to say something, but then only shook his head and rubbed a hand over his face.

"I'm gonna take a shower," he said, and left without another look.

House sighed and considered getting up as well - he'd certainly like to, the floor hadn't gotten any more comfortable over night - but as he moved his right leg, a sharp stab of pain convinced him to stay where he was for the moment.

He listened to the sounds that were coming from the bathroom; the toilet flushing, the tap being turned on and off, and finally the sound of water pouring from the shower. That one didn't stop for at least fifteen minutes, about twice as long as Wilson's showers usually took. It wasn't followed by the hum of the blow-dryer, either. Instead, House heard the click of the bathroom door, and a moment later, Wilson entered the room, a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair damp and hanging into his eyes. From the expression on his face, the shower hadn't mellowed his mood as House had silently hoped it would.

Wilson crossed the room and opened the closet, pulling out a pair of sweats and one of his t-shirts. He put them on, seemingly oblivious to House's eyes on him before he threw the discarded towel over a chair and turned around.

"You gonna stay there all day?" he asked.

House shrugged. "I like it here. It's cozy."

Wilson glared at him for another moment before he shook his head and rolled his eyes at House. "You're an idiot," he said. "Why did you sleep on the goddamn floor anyway?"

For a moment House was a little confused to find himself on the wrong end of the berating, but then he only shrugged again. He knew that Wilson was seeing right through his act of indifference, but that was no reason to admit that Wilson was right. "You wouldn't let me move you to the bed," he said.

"Right." Wilson scoffed. "And that's a reason how, exactly?"

House opened his mouth to say something, but then thought better of it and simply turned his eyes away. He heard Wilson huff in frustration but didn't look up to see what he was doing. Instead, House pushed the blankets aside and set himself to the laborious task of getting up.

At first, it was going more or less okay. He rolled over his left leg and got to his knees, and even though the movement made his leg cramp painfully it wasn't any worse than on some regular days. It started to get a lot worse, though, when he had to briefly put his weight on his right leg in order to get his left foot underneath himself. House gritted his teeth and clenched his fingers and somehow managed to push himself upright, leaning heavily against the wall for support.

Standing there and trying to catch his breath, he couldn't see how he was supposed to make it from the wall over to the bed, let alone the bathroom. Suddenly, he felt a less-than-gentle hand on his elbow.

"You're a fucking idiot," Wilson said again as he all but manhandled House to the bed. House felt more than relieved when he felt the firm mattress under himself. He raised his head to look at Wilson as Wilson scooped up the pillows, blankets and the bottle of Vicodin that had fallen out of House's pajama pockets. He dumped the bedding onto the mattress behind House, and House quickly snatched the Vidodin bottle out of the air as Wilson tossed it to him.

"Thanks," House said somewhat breathlessly. Wilson didn't answer, and merely shook his head before he left the room.

House flicked open the pill bottle and swallowed two in rapid succession. Then he let himself fall back onto the bed and closed his eyes.

The pills took unusually long to kick in, but after about fifteen minutes House felt the sharp pain in his leg diminish to a dull throb. He waited another five minutes before he sat up and reached for his cane, using it to lever himself to his feet. Standing was painful, but not as impossible as twenty minutes ago. House grabbed the pill bottle from the nightstand and made his way into the kitchen, where Wilson was seated at the kitchen table, sipping coffee. He didn't look up as House entered. House saw the now-empty package of acetaminophen lying on the tabletop beside Wilson's coffee cup.

He walked over to the counter and picked up the coffee mug, only to realize that it was empty. Wilson had only made coffee for himself. House rolled his eyes and was tempted to make a remark, but then he simply carried the pot to the sink to fill it.

The silence in the room was tense, and as always happened to him in these situations, House grew impatient. He turned on the coffee maker and then walked up to the table and sat down on one of the chairs, glad to be able to take the weight off his leg. "Stop acting as if I killed your mother," he said. "I was trying to help you."

Wilson didn't look up. "Well, don't do that," he said.

House rolled his eyes. "You could still be having that migraine if I hadn't-"

Wilson slammed his hand down on the table and glared at House, his eyes blazing with anger. "You gave me LSD!" he yelled, and House had to muster up all his self-discipline not to wince. "Do you even know what kind of long-term effects that stuff can have?!"

"There are no long-term effects of LSD, except with underlying conditions. Do you have an underlying tendency to schizophrenic psychoses?"

"The fact that you have to ask speaks for itself."

House rolled his eyes. "You should give lessons on how to be intentionally thick and annoying. I'm your medical proxy, I know your history. And I know that the only occurrence of mental illness in your family was your mom's father's Alzheimer's."

"And you think that makes it okay for you to dope me up on acid?" Wilson was angrier than House had ever seen him, and the fact that basically Wilson had every right to be seething didn't really help House's position.

"You wouldn't let me help you!" he said, raising his voice as well. "You'd rather lie there and be miserable all night! I'm not going to apologize for trying to do something!"

Wilson's glare was murder. "Yes," he said, his voice oozing sarcasm. "Because you let me help you when you're in pain. You never prefer to be miserable rather than accept help."

House hated it when Wilson did that. Twisted his words. Was right. He pressed his lips together, then grabbed his cane and got up. "Kiss my ass, James Wilson," he said, while trying to keep the pain in his leg from showing on his face. He limped over to the counter and filled a cup with the freshly brewed coffee. Then he took the mug, and without another look at Wilson - who hadn't given a response to House's insult and had gone back to staring morosely into his own coffee mug - he started towards the living room.

Walking didn't even hurt all that much, and that was probably why House's attention slipped for a moment. He set his cane down on the rug just outside the kitchen door, and as he shifted his weight onto it the rubber tip slipped a little.

Usually, he would have easily been able to catch himself. Today, however, as soon as his body weight shifted to his right leg a flash of agony shot up to his brain, and he lost his balance, crashing to the floor and spilling hot coffee all over his hand and forearm.

"Fuck!"

House curled in on himself, the stinging pain from his scalded hand and the searing stab in his leg clashing and grating in his brain and spinal nerves. He clenched his teeth and held his breath until the pain relented.

"House! Are you okay?"

Wilson's voice. House opened his eyes to see Wilson in the kitchen doorframe, a concerned and inquiring expression on his face. There wasn't a trace of anger. House couldn't help but smile a little at that.

"I- " He winced as the wet, now cooling cuff of his shirt rubbed over the irritated skin on his arm as he slowly sat up. "I spilled my coffee."

House could see ambiguous emotions battling on Wilson's face, before a well-known resigned-but-sympathetic expression took over and Wilson knelt down beside him. He took House's burned hand in his, carefully pushing the fabric of the shirt aside and running gentle fingers over the angry red skin. Then he shook his head and sighed. "Did I tell you already that you're an idiot?" he asked.

House, who had to make an effort not to wince and pull away at Wilson's touch, smirked a little. "You might have mentioned something."

Wilson got to his feet. "Take off your shirt," he said before he went back into the kitchen.

House carefully began to peel off his shirt, wincing, and heard Wilson putter around in the kitchen, the sound of pots banging together and then the rushing of the tap being turned on. A moment later Wilson returned with a bowl of water, which he put down on the floor beside House. "Put your hand in there," he said.

House put his hand in the water and hissed as the cool liquid made his burned skin tingle. Wilson used some kitchen paper to wipe up the spilled coffee, then went into the bedroom, returning a moment later with one of House's t-shirts. He squatted beside House and gestured with his hand. "Let me see."

House let him take another look at his hand and dab away the moisture with a cloth, and after a few moments, Wilson nodded. "It's not too bad," he said. "Only first degree."

"Gee, thank you, Dr. Wilson," House said, but his tone wasn't unkind, and Wilson only raised an eyebrow and handed him the shirt. House put it on, glad of the layer of fabric protecting him from the slight chill of the air on his bare skin. Wilson reached out to pick up his cane and handed it to him. "You think you can get up?"

House took a moment to gather himself, then quirked his eyebrows. "I can try." He reached out for Wilson's arm, and with the other man's help, got first to his knees and then slowly, awkwardly levered himself to his feet. It was an exhausting and painful procedure, and when he was finally standing upright, he leaned heavily on Wilson, clenching his teeth and breathing hard. Wilson had an arm around his shoulders, supporting him, and for a brief moment House allowed Wilson to carry most of his weight, keeping his head lowered and trying to catch his breath. Then he took a careful, unsteady step. Wilson didn't let go, and together they made their awkward way to the couch.

House collapsed onto the seat, feeling eternally relieved to be able to take his weight off his leg. He rubbed his thigh, hunching his shoulders a little and gritting his teeth. After a while the pain relented a little, and he sat back, reaching into his pocket for a pill and swallowing it dry before he opened his eyes to see Wilson standing before him, offering him a glass of water. House reached out and took it from him. "Thanks," he said, his voice rather hoarse even to his own ears.

Wilson walked around his outstretched legs to the other side of the couch and sat down beside him, switching on the TV. The image of the weather woman filled the screen, and House groaned and held out a demanding hand. Wilson hesitated only for a split second before handing over the remote.

House was about to switch channels when he hesitated and lowered his hand. Wilson turned his head, giving him an inquiring glance, and House looked at him. "I'm sorry, Wilson," he said, and even though hearing himself apologize made him cringe, he knew that he meant it. "I shouldn't have slipped you acid."

Wilson raised his eyebrows and then nodded. "No, you shouldn't have. At least not without telling me. But it's okay."

He turned back to the TV, but House didn't look away, continuing to watch Wilson's profile. After a moment Wilson spoke again, gesturing at the TV. "Are you going to switch channels, or are we going to watch the weather channel all day?"

House turned to the TV as well and hit the zap button until he found an old Star Trek rerun.

"She's dead, Jim," Dr. McCoy said gravely, and looked up from his medical thingamajig that looked suspiciously like a salt shaker.

House settled back into the couch and almost unconsciously shuffled over so his left leg was touching Wilson's right. They watched as the senior crew of the NCC-1701 took the appropriate three seconds to mourn the dead redshirt and then moved on to find a sparring partner for Captain Kirk.

House could feel the over thirty megs of hydrocodone in his system making him drowsy, and he only marginally registered it when Wilson put an arm around his shoulders and drew him in a little closer. After a while he realized he could feel the soft fabric of Wilson's t-shirt under his cheek, but by then his head had already grown too heavy, and he wouldn't have moved away even if he'd really wanted to. Something exploded on the big TV screen, and then his eyes slipped fully closed, leaving him oblivious to anything that was going on around him.

-###-

He was woken by a sharp poke to his shoulder and a voice in his ear. "House!"

He blinked and raised his head to see Wilson, who looked just as drowsy as House felt, squinting at him.

"Phone," Wilson said, his voice a little hoarse as if he'd been sleeping as well.

Only then did House register the shrill ringing of the phone in the background. He groaned and yawned. "Well, pick it up, then," he said. Wilson poked him again.

"Can't," he said. "You're lying on top of me."

House shook his head a little to regain his bearings, and saw that Wilson was right. Wilson was trapped between House and the arm of the couch, and for a moment House wondered how the hell Wilson had been able to fall asleep like that. Just for good measure he rolled his eyes at Wilson anyway before he pushed himself upright and groped for the phone, cutting off Wilson's boring answering machine message in mid-sentence.

"What?" he growled into the receiver.

There was a brief moment of silence at the other end. "House?" a woman's voice asked. House let himself fall back against the backrest.

"Hey, Cuddy," he said, both as a way of greeting and for Wilson's benefit. Wilson had been watching him with raised eyebrows and now nodded and leaned back as well. House heard paper rustling at the other end of the line and imagined Cuddy sitting behind her desk in her office, the receiver wedged between ear and shoulder, sorting through her paperwork and wearing a low-cut shirt as well as a half-worried, half-disapproving frown.

"Hey," she said. "How's things in the house of House?"

House grinned a little. "Oh, just peachy," he said. "Love 'n peace all around."

Cuddy snorted. "Is Wilson okay?" she asked then, her tone so much like that of a matron that House's smirk widened to a broad grin.

"Wilson's just fine," he said, and he could almost hear Cuddy's skeptical frown over the line.

"Let me talk to him," she said. House glanced over at Wilson, who was watching him with a small smile on his lips.

"He's sleeping," House said, raising an eyebrow at Wilson and daring him to say anything. Wilson only grinned, though, and leaned back, turning his eyes to the TV where by now the Nanny Fran and Niles the Butler were having a silent shouting match on muted volume.

House heard Cuddy sigh. "Tell him to call me when he wakes up," she said. "And if he doesn't show up for work tomorrow, I am calling social services to report a case of spousal abuse."

House could tell she was joking, but there was also a certain warning in her voice. He rolled his eyes. "He'll be there," he said, and Cuddy grunted in a somewhat un-ladylike way.

"I hope." She said a short good-bye and then hung up. House dropped the phone into the couch gap and gave Wilson a sideways glance.

"Try not to run into any doors or break any bones in the near future," he said. "Cuddy would have me arrested. She already thinks you're a battered woman."

Wilson snorted in surprise. "She what?"

House only shook his head, and Wilson chuckled, picking up the remote from where it had fallen to the floor and turning up the volume before he handed it to House. "Battered woman," he said. "I like that. I could sue you for compensation."

"Watch it," House growled. "Or I'll beat you with my cane."

Wilson grinned, and together they turned back to the TV. They watched the show for a while, until Wilson made a remark about the actor playing Niles the Butler that was so painfully incorrect that it almost made House cringe. He wasted no time in telling Wilson just how wrong he was, and soon the two of them were engaged in a heated argument about whether or not Daniel Davis had guest starred in one of the Men In Black episodes. When it became obvious that Wilson was right after all, House quickly changed the subject by loudly announcing that he was starving. Wilson gave him a slightly exasperated side-glance but didn't pursue the matter, instead offering to make pancakes.

"If we still have any milk left." Wilson got up from the couch and went into the kitchen, and House could hear him opening the fridge and beginning to putter around, pulling bowls and ingredients out of the cupboards. He turned and contentedly stretched out on the couch, closing his eyes.

He'd almost dozed off again when he felt a knee nudge his foot. "Move over," he heard Wilson say.

He opened his eyes to see Wilson standing beside the couch, carrying a tray with coffee, pancakes and syrup. House sat up, moving out of the way to make some space for Wilson. His stomach growled in anticipation as he stacked his plate with pancakes and poured syrup on them. He then offered the syrup to Wilson, who shook his head and held up a hand.

"No, thanks," he said around a mouthful of pancakes. House rolled his eyes at him.

"They're much better with," he said. Wilson swallowed and grinned.

"I suppose they are. But my revenge won't be half as sweet if I'm too stoned to watch."

House, who had been stuffing his face with pancakes, almost dropped his plate. He stared at Wilson for a moment before he quickly put the plate aside. "You laced the syrup?!" he asked. Wilson was shaking with silent laughter, and House considered whacking him over the head with his cane after all.

Eventually, Wilson caught himself enough to give an understandable answer. "No," he said, still chuckling. "I didn't."

House eyed him suspiciously, and Wilson snorted. "Really, I didn't," he said. "I'm not the one with the secret stash."

"And to think I wasted mine on you," House said, and picked up his plate to continue his meal. He trusted Wilson about as far as he could throw him, but these pancakes were simply too good to let them go to waste.

Still, he couldn't help eying the bookshelf, half expecting it to start dancing any moment. And no matter how concealed his side-glances were, House couldn't shake the feeling that Wilson was noting and watching each single one of them in secret, silent laughter.