![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
WIP: Untitled as of yet
Yay, another post. Last one for today, I promise!
Other than all the meme spamming, this actually has content, though. I've started uni today, and both of the courses I went to were pretty pointless, but the second one, Histo, was a complete waste of time. People who remember my rants from three months ago might remember that I ranted about my histology prof, who is unable to string together one coherent sentence. Well, he hasn't learned it since. So, I've started a little project to keep myself busy during Histo course. I'm diddling with a sweet and enjoyable but pretty pointless plot bunny of mine which includes all of my faves: sick!Wilson, established relationship, House POV, domestic!H/W, some humor, some angst, and some fluff ;). I've got Histo classes every Monday, Tuesday and Thursday, so that's when the updates are going to be. I am not going to touch this WIP outside of Histo. There's no beta as of yet (aside from the spell check), and I'm not xposting it anywhere till it's done. I invite you to join me on my Histo survival trip - but I have to warn you: I'm terrible with WIPs. There's a good chance this will end up unfinished.
House was woken by retching sounds coming from the bathroom. He opened his eyes and turned his head to see that the other half of the bed was empty, the blankets screwed up at the foot of the bed. For a moment, he didn't move, just listened to the sounds from the bathroom. Then he let out a sigh and awkwardly climbed out of bed, wincing as his leg reminded him that his last Vicodin was more than six hours ago. He remedied that situation, grabbed his cane and made his way to the bathroom.
He stood in the doorway, leaning on his cane and frowning at the picture that presented itself. Wilson, wearing only a t-shirt and shorts, was kneeling in front of the toilet, for now not throwing up anymore but leaning his forehead on his palm, his elbows resting on the toilet seat. His shoulders were shivering.
"What's up?" House asked.
Wilson didn't move. "Sky," he said in a hoarse voice.
House rolled his eyes and limped across the room to stand beside Wilson. "Migraine?" he asked. Wilson gave an almost imperceptible nod. House puffed a short breath out of his nose and said nothing for a moment. He'd been expecting something like this. Over the last few weeks, Wilson had been pushing himself past his limits, taking on too many cases, spending too many nights holed up in his office, agonizing over the annual performance reviews of his staff and other mindless, time-consuming paperwork. Always the hypocrite, thought House. Lecturing me about my Vicodin habit and working himself to death at the same time.
He reached out and put a hand on Wilson's shoulder, feeling the coolness of the sweat-soaked t-shirt under his fingers. "Can you get up?" he asked.
Without raising his head, Wilson began to slowly get up, holding on to the wall for support, his eyes screwed shut tightly. When he'd finally straightened up, he let go of the wall to turn around, and promptly stumbled. House quickly reached out to grab his arm, and only the cane kept him from losing his balance himself. He pressed his lips together as his leg protested against the weight he was putting on it. "Watch it, big fella," he said. "Don't rely on me to catch you."
"Sorry," Wilson mumbled, and House had to keep himself from slapping him upside the head.
"Don't apologize, idiot," he said. "Get yourself back to the bedroom."
Slowly, awkwardly, Wilson made his way back to the bedroom and all but crumpled into the bed, curling up without even bothering to draw up the blankets. House did it for him instead, and then went back into the bathroom to flush the toilet and get Wilson two Excedrin and a glass of water. When he had made sure that Wilson had swallowed both pills and drunk all the water, he went into the living room to call Cuddy and let her know that neither he nor Wilson would be in today.