Chapter Text
House's leg hurts. Shocking, he knows.
But it's been worse than usual since the pipes in his apartment burst yesterday. He has no running water, which means no baths to soothe his aching thigh, which means he's in more pain than Vicodin can deal with. Not for a lack of trying. He's been enthusiastically trying.
And he's been cleaning his teeth in the sink in his outer office, gripping the countertop with his free hand to avoid putting unnecessary weight on his leg. His team haven't commented on his newfound hygiene habits yet, but that might be because of how often he's been yelling at them over the past day and a half.
It's their fault. Mostly. Their theories have been worse than ever lately. It's as if they've stopped thinking now they've been around for long enough to get comfortable.
Ugh. He hopes not. He doesn't have the energy to fire them all and find a new team if that's the case.
At least he has a patient right now. Without the puzzle keeping his brain busy, he'd be—actually, he doesn't know what he'd be doing, but it definitely wouldn't be on the semi-official list of Wilson-Approved Methods of Pain Relief.
Not that he cares what Wilson thinks. But House doesn't feel like being on the receiving end of that concerned eyebrow furrow and disappointed hands-on-hips stance. Not today.
He gets through the differential on autopilot, throwing out whatever details he can remember from the patient's file, criticising Taub and Kutner’s ideas half-heartedly. He's glad it's just them. Foreman, who's off with Thirteen for the Huntington's drug trial, would've noticed something was wrong. He wouldn't care, but he'd notice, and that's just as bad.
“Remind me why I hired you again,” he says, jaw clenched in what he hopes looks like annoyance instead of pain.
“Because—”
“That was rhetorical,” House says, cutting off Taub. “I don't care. Now come on, surely you can come up with one decent idea between the two of you.”
“He has dogs, he could’ve caught something from one of them.”
A throbbing pain shoots down his thigh. He tunes out what Kutner is saying, mentally berating his past self for deciding to take off his jacket—with Vicodin in the pocket—in his inner office before coming out here.
He debates making one of his fellows get it for him, but shoots it down. They've already been exchanging looks when they think he isn't paying attention. He doesn't need to admit exactly how incapable he is, unable to make it across the floor to his desk on the other side of the glass wall without help.
“Do these windows open?” Kutner asks, glancing out towards the balcony.
“You're in a hospital,” House says, stretching his leg out further to try and ease the pain. It doesn't work. “If you're looking to kill yourself, there are a dozen more effective methods that don't involve jumping out a window. And more fun too, if drugs are involved.”
“I meant to let some fresh air in,” he says, but House can tell he's already given up on the argument.
“I'm sure you'll get plenty of fresh air on the walk to the patient's room. Which is where you should be right now, actually, so you can take him to get an MRI of his brain.”
“But he's already had an MRI,” Kutner says.
“That's funny,” House says, “I don't remember ordering an MRI until now.”
“He got an MRI a month ago at a different hospital,” Taub says. “He barely wants to be here, he's not going to want another one because you don't trust his last doctor.”
“And you think I care about what he wants?” House says. “Do an MRI.”
He sends them off, squeezing his eyes shut and digging the heel of his palm into his thigh as soon as they're gone.
He could make himself a coffee and rest the warm mug against his leg like a heat pack, but that's too much effort for the likely negligible impact it will have.
More than anything, he wants a bath. He wants scalding hot water burning his skin and eating away at the ache in his leg. He wants the water to ease the pressure on his joints, make him feel weightless for as long as he's submerged.
Two days is hardly the longest he's gone between baths, and not even close to the longest he's gone without showering, especially when he has a case. But when he's in this much pain, he'd rather he didn't have to feel dirty at the same time.
He considered taking a shower at the hospital this morning, but he didn't think he could stand for that long or risk his cane slipping out from under him on the wet tiles. And he's not about to sit on the floor of the gross hospital bathrooms.
His watch reads 11:36. Taub and Kutner will be busy with the MRI for a while, even if the patient doesn't inexplicably start seizing or throwing up blood during the test like an improbable number of his patients do, and Foreman and Thirteen will be back in the afternoon. There's enough time for House to shuffle to his office for his pills without anyone seeing him struggle.
Breathing slowly, he starts lifting himself up off his chair, but collapses again the second he puts weight on his bad leg. He hisses and claws at his thigh.
He reconsiders his plan. Maybe he should text Wilson, say he ran out of Vicodin and needs a new script delivered to him immediately. The odds of Wilson remembering that he just filled a script three days ago are…actually very likely.
Damn.
Wilson is sitting behind his desk when someone knocks at his office door. He knows it isn’t House—he wouldn’t have bothered knocking—so he doesn’t feel the urge to cover his face or brace for impact when the door opens before he can say anything.
Kutner slinks into Wilson’s office, shutting the door behind him quickly.
"We need your help," he says, and Wilson is already running through a list of worst-case scenarios that begin with House bleeding out on the floor of his office and end with House deliberately infecting his patient with rabies to cure appendicitis or something.
Wilson sighs. “What did he do now?”
“He smells bad,” Kutner says.
Wilson blinks. House smells bad?
“And…what were you hoping I’d do about that?” he asks, half-certain that this is just an oddly elaborate bet or prank Kutner’s been drawn into.
“You need to tell him to take a shower,” Kutner says. “If one of us did it, he’d refuse out of spite. It's affecting all of us. It’s hard to think when we can't breathe.”
Kutner's exaggerating, surely. Wilson would've noticed if his best friend reeked badly enough to impair his fellows' cognitive function.
Admittedly, Wilson’s only interaction with House this morning was brief. They’d crossed paths while Wilson was heading to the bathroom and House was hurrying somewhere in the opposite direction, Taub and Kutner following a few paces behind him.
Now that he thinks about it, it is weird that House was managing to outpace them so easily, especially with his failed attempt at concealing a grimace with every step. He was hurting, moving slower than usual, though Wilson doubts anyone other than him could’ve noticed it.
Maybe his fellows didn’t want to get close to him because he smells bad.
But Wilson didn’t smell anything like that as he walked past. He did get a hint of something familiar though, as if a nurse wearing a particularly strong perfume had just been by. It stuck out to him since it's against hospital policy to wear strong fragrances like that.
It's a shame, really, since it actually smelt good. In another life, one where he isn't living in his dead girlfriend's apartment, he might've tried to track down the perfume’s owner, maybe flirt a little.
But nobody was around except for House and his two fellows, so he put it out of his mind.
The perfume must've covered up whatever House-stench was bothering Kutner. Or maybe House has sabotaged his outer office by planting something foul-smelling in there, and that's why Wilson couldn't smell it on House.
“You’re the only one he listens to,” Kutner adds, and Wilson tries to ignore the swell of satisfied pride that grows behind his ribs.
“Alright,” he says, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He was planning on going down for lunch soon anyway, which means House’s internal radar will go off, alerting him that Wilson’s about to buy food he can steal.
“Also,” Kutner says, “I wasn't here. I've been with the patient this whole time.”
When Wilson nods, Kutner leaves his office as cautiously as he entered. Wilson doesn't bother telling him that House would find it a thousand times more suspicious if he saw Kutner peering out of the doorway first instead of leaving confidently and pretending nothing is wrong.
Though, if he's being honest, he likes being the only person who understands how House operates. He doesn't want to share that insider knowledge.
Wilson heads down to the cafeteria, buying himself more food than he could finish on his own. Like always.
He picks up chips in his third favourite flavour because they're House's second favourite—buying House's outright favourite would be too suspicious. He also makes sure his sandwich has pickles so House, infamous pickle-hater, will still believe that Wilson doesn't buy extra for him, that he's inconveniencing Wilson by stealing his food.
And so Wilson can make fun of him when House inevitably sneaks a bite and doesn't like it.
He sits in their usual spot, slowly picking at his food, but House never shows.
After checking his watch and calculating how long it would've taken House to get down here, accounting for increased pain slowing his progress, Wilson takes what's left of his lunch off the tray and brings it up to House's office instead.
House is in his inner office, a light sheen of sweat on his face. He doesn't look up when the door opens, but his pained expression smooths into something faker as Wilson approaches his desk and sinks into one of the chairs there.
“Why are you here?” House asks.
Wilson's chest tightens. No snarky comment, no sarcastic remark about his dietary choices, nothing about House’s new Wilson Lunch Delivery Service. Bad pain day, clearly.
“One of the nurses is leaving,” Wilson says. “Someone’s going around with a card for everyone to sign, and I can’t pretend I’m not thrilled that she’s leaving for long enough to write a polite message. This seemed like the perfect place to hide. Nobody comes to you for polite.”
He sets his lunch on the desk and continues eating.
“Lucky for me,” House says, leaning forwards to snag a few stray chips.
And, in that moment, Wilson's brain glitches.
He was ready to make a pre-prepared protest about House taking his food. He knows exactly how much emphasis to put on each word, knows how to skirt the line between affection and frustration, knows how to make House think he wasn't angling for this the entire time.
But.
When House got closer to him, something happened.
And now he can't think. Breathing is hard too.
Huh.
“What's wrong with you?” House asks around a mouthful of chips, offended.
Wilson doesn't know. His skin is tingling as if he's been electrocuted and his face feels too hot, his skin too tight. In a good way, not a bad way.
And, even weirder, he smells that nurse's perfume again. Coming from House?
“You're wearing perfume?” he asks.
“Yes,” House deadpans. “Despite using the same brand of soap for the entire length of our friendship, I decided to branch out. I’ve always wanted to smell like your mother.”
Distantly, Wilson recognises that there's something wrong. He doesn't feel normal. But on every inhale, he cares less about that. He could survive on this smell for the rest of his life and he'd be satisfied. Happy, even.
Earlier, Kutner said House smelt bad. But he clearly doesn't. Wilson would notice, especially this close to him. He should be smelling sweat and day-old grime, not something vaguely sweet and warm that has him imperceptibly leaning forwards to catch more of it.
Kutner must've been wrong. He must've not liked House's new soap. Or maybe House snuck off to have a shower in the twenty minutes it took Wilson to get here.
And…completely dried his hair. And missed the same button on his shirt when he was getting dressed again, leaving his undershirt exposed below his ribs.
House can’t have showered.
“New soap?” Wilson asks faintly.
“Bad answer,” House says. “That was when you're supposed to accuse me of scheming, or breaking into my patient’s home to use his bath since my pipes are busted. I thought about that last one, but the guy lives in Virginia. Gross.”
House leans back in his chair, one hand rubbing his thigh and the other fidgeting with an elastic band. He stares at Wilson, examining him as if he's an intriguing puzzle or medical anomaly.
He might be right.
Because suddenly, Wilson can breathe again.
Wilson blinks, shakes his head to clear it. House is still on the other side of the desk, and now the air doesn't feel as syrupy thick as it did before.
“You still don’t have water at your place?” he asks, his brain catching up on what he missed.
“Nope, still broken. Just like you, apparently.”
He instinctively wants to accuse House of dosing him (again), but that's impossible. They've barely seen each other today, and this is the first time Wilson's eaten anything since his dinner last night.
He hasn’t had coffee today. No tea either. Shit, he hasn't even drunk water since—
Oh.
That'll do it.
“I guess I should’ve had breakfast today,” Wilson says, running a slightly shaky hand through his hair. “Or drank any water at all.”
House looks concerned, but says nothing. God forbid he ever acknowledges he’s concerned about his only friend when he could keep up the pretence that he’s an unfeeling machine who doesn’t care about anyone but himself instead.
It's honestly endearing how much of a loser House is.
Wilson brings one of his hands up to his cheek, aiming for subtlety but clearly not making it judging by the way House’s eyes narrow, scrutinising the motion. Beneath his hand, his face is warm. Not fever-warm, he doesn’t think, but not normal.
He drops his hand back to his lap.
House is still staring, calculating.
“Stop looking at me like that,” Wilson says. “I’m fine.”
“Sure you are,” House says. “Your dilated pupils and borderline dissociation were just harmless quirks that mean nothing. Definitely not, I don't know, symptoms?”
“There isn’t some big mystery here, House. I’m not your patient. It’s just dehydration and low blood sugar. And I’m treating it right now by eating my lunch.”
To emphasise his point, he picks up his sandwich and takes a bite.
House doesn't believe him, but he steals another few chips.
A sharp beeping finally drags House's gaze away from Wilson. He pulls out his pager and groans, but gets up anyway, leaning heavily on his cane.
“Patient’s sweaty and they're calling for me. I swear kids these days can’t do anything without help.”
As House brushes past him to leave, Wilson gets hit with another wave of that sweet-warm-good smell. His brain glitches again. The glass door closes behind House and Wilson has no memory of it opening in the first place.
Is Wilson losing time?
He panics.
He takes House's list of symptoms—dilated pupils, brain fog—and adds some more.
Flushing. Weakness, shakiness in his arms and legs. Tachycardia.
And, most obviously, dysosmia. An altered sense of smell.
There's something wrong with him.
Wilson spends the rest of the day experimenting.
He hides—
No.
He spends the afternoon in his office because he works there. He isn't freaking out and he definitely isn't hiding from anyone.
Makes it easier for patients to find him, too.
Thankfully, the rest of his appointments are straightforward and his rounds aren't too demanding. Some of his patients may be dying, but nobody's dying today, which means he can run his informal diagnostic tests without feeling too guilty. He still feels a little guilty, but when does he not?
He remembers the names of all of Lori Petranella’s grandchildren and what sports and musical instruments they play without checking her file first.
No brain fog.
He gets roped into playing a round of Mario Kart with McKenzie Harrison while her dad runs to get a coffee and give himself a breather. Her dad doesn't want to leave her alone and she isn't comfortable enough around the nurses yet, so he hands Wilson one Nintendo DS (red and black) and gives McKenzie hers (pale pink, covered in stickers) before he goes.
Wilson throws the match when it's clear McKenzie is a let me win 8-year-old instead of a stop going easy on me 8-year-old, but she never suspects anything because he fakes it perfectly.
No shakiness.
He compulsively takes his temperature and pulse every half-hour. It's normal each time.
No flushing, no fever, no tachycardia, no nothing.
In his office, during a break between patients, he glances out the window to make sure the shared balcony is free of any House-shaped disturbances before grabbing the bottle of hand sanitiser from the corner of his desk.
He brings it up to his nose and deeply sniffs.
He coughs, nearly gagging at the concentrated hit of ethanol that invades his nose and coats the back of his throat.
Okay, so no dysosmia. Or, at least, he's capable of correctly smelling hand sanitiser.
But that doesn't explain why he thought House smelt so—
Not intoxicating. That's not a word that straight men use to describe their straight friend's scent.
God, is he really that lonely after Amber?
Yes.
Maybe he should start dating again, although the idea of getting a new girlfriend makes his stomach twist. A tangle of guilt and something hot-spiky-bitter that he doesn't know how to name. He's sure he'll get there eventually. He's just not ready yet.
Anyway. He needs more data.
He ventures next door to the Diagnostics office, throwing out a quick “sorry, ignore me” as he walks around the table to the coffee machine.
The whole team is there, all clustered together on the opposite side of the table to House. It makes the differential look more like a lecture than a team working together. Does House really smell that bad? There's nothing noticeable from here, bad or otherwise.
“Both his MRIs showed nothing physically wrong with his brain,” Taub says. “He's got a high-stress job, he's overworked. It’s just stress.”
“That's apparently what his psychiatrist said too,” Thirteen says, “but if that were true, he wouldn't be getting worse while he isn't working.”
Wilson starts making himself a coffee in House’s red mug, casually sniffing the beans as he does. They smell exactly like coffee beans. Nothing abnormal there.
“Could be aspirin poisoning,” Foreman says. “Explains the headaches, confusion, exhaustion, even the hallucinations.”
“But if his headaches are caused by the aspirin, what about the headache that made him start taking aspirin in the first place?” Kutner asks.
“Stress and dehydration,” Taub says, “from his job.”
Wilson stirs in his usual three teaspoons of sugar and concentrates on what else he can smell. Vague impressions of lemon-scented dishwashing liquid from the sink, the supposedly odourless filtered hospital air from the A/C, whispers of laundry powder and deodorant from his shirt.
Everything’s normal. If he forgets his previous symptoms, he's completely fine. He ignores the voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like House ranting about disregarding symptoms because they're inconvenient.
“What about the sweat? The guy’s sweated through four sets of sheets in the past day,” House says.
“Fever?” Kutner asks.
Wilson winces. Now he understands what Kutner meant about not being able to think properly around House.
“Great,” House says. “Or, it would be, if fever was a diagnosis and not a symptom.”
“Some cancers can cause excessive sweating,” Wilson offers, turning to face the group with his coffee and perching on the edge of the counter.
This is his moment to provide a well-rounded theory, partly to help House’s patient but mostly to prove his brain fog is gone and he's officially healthy, that this morning was just a blip that requires no further monitoring or investigation.
House springs out of his chair with all the grace he's capable of—very little—and walks over to Wilson, taking the coffee out of his hands. He doesn't protest.
“Go on, Doctor Wilson,” House says, but it's as if he's talking underwater. The only reason Wilson understood him is because he happened to be lip reading at the same time.
House takes a long sip from the mug, and Wilson finds himself staring at the lines of House’s throat as he tilts his head back.
There's that smell again. It's overwhelming. Almost fruity. Or minty? No, something else, harder to describe but somehow familiar. He swallows, his throat tight.
“Uh,” Wilson says, voice cracking at the edges.
What was he saying? Did it matter?
It can't have been important.
“Damn, guess you really did need coffee,” House says, placing the empty mug back into Wilson's (now shaky) hand. “Oops. Looks like someone drank yours.”
House walks off towards his whiteboard, and Wilson somehow manages to keep the mug from slipping through his weak grip. He puts the cup on the counter with an uncharacteristic lack of coordination.
“So it's not in his brain,” House says, “but it might be in his head.”
Wilson gets control of his body back. His heartbeat stops beating so aggressively inside his chest and against his temples. He wipes sweaty palms on his lab coat and thinks.
Okay.
Intermittent symptoms, sudden onset, short-lived duration. There has to be an explanation, but Wilson can't think of anything that's changed in his life recently.
His hormone levels are as consistent as they've ever been, and his most recent T shot was almost two weeks ago. If his hormones were out of balance, he'd have other symptoms, and they'd be constant. Sure, his libido is slightly higher than usual, but that's normal considering he's been single ever since Amber died, and it's his only relevant symptom.
It's not testosterone.
His diet hasn't changed, he hasn't bought anything new that might've exposed him to toxins, he's been sleeping fine.
There's nothing in his environment that's changed, and yet.
For some reason, somehow, he's reacting to House. And only House. But he's known House for over a decade. Why would this start now?
He's still too foggy to figure it out, but he knows one thing for certain.
He absolutely cannot tell House until he knows what's going on, or else he'll become the resident patient of the week. He doesn't want to be poked and prodded by House's team. And he doesn't want House to win if it turns out he's orchestrating this whole thing as part of a prank.
Because Wilson is allergic to House.