WIP: Untitled as of yet, Part 3

[teyla]

Yeah, so, here's the rest. Not much, only about 500 words.
Poor Wilsie. I'm really rather shamelessly living out my sick!Wilson obsession in this one.

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Two hours later, House decided that he had played the comforting boyfriend for long enough. He wasn't too keen on the idea of waking Wilson up after the man had finally managed to fall asleep about an hour ago, but his leg was very adamantly demanding to be moved, preferably to bed after a good-night dose of the little white pills. House reached down to put a hand on Wilson's shoulder. "Hey," he said. Wilson didn't react, and House tightened his grip a little. "Hey," he repeated. "Wake up."

Wilson gave a low grunt and began to shift around. When he moved his head, he groaned and scrunched up his face. "What?" he slurred, sounding rather irritated. House smirked a little.

"Bedtime, Jimmy," he said. Wilson blinked and gingerly sat up. House shivered as the weight of the warm body was taken off his chest.

"What time is it?" Wilson asked, squinting sleepily at House.

House sat up and hoisted his leg over the edge of the couch, sucking in his lower lip as the stiff muscles protested violently. He dug the Vicodin bottle from his pocket and swallowed one before offering them to Wilson. "Almost eleven," he said.

Wilson frowned at the orange bottle and then looked up to give House a reproachful glare. House shrugged and pocketed the pills. "Masochist."

"Junkie."

House smiled a little and fished for his cane. "I'm going to bed," he said. "You coming?"

"Yeah," Wilson said and got to his feet as well. House kept his eyes on Wilson as he followed him to the bedroom, and thought that he seemed to be doing a bit better. His steps were still somewhat unsteady, and he still seemed a little out of it, but his movements weren't as pained as a couple of hours ago. Maybe this headache was finally wearing off.

 

His optimism was proven wrong only three hours later. After taking the Vicodin, House had fallen asleep pretty quickly, but his night's rest was soon interrupted by disquiet rustling from the other side of the bed. He opened his eyes and rolled onto his back.

"You okay?" he asked. The shifting of the blankets stopped.

"Sorry," Wilson said, and House could tell by the tension in his voice that the pain had returned full force. "Didn't mean to wake you."

House let out a sigh and reached out to turn on the bedside lamp, careful to keep the light out of Wilson's face. "Are you okay?" he asked again.

Wilson, who was lying on his back, moved around, obviously trying to find a comfortable position without moving his head too much. "I think I've got a fever," he admitted after a moment.

Oh hell. House reached out to put a hand on Wilson's forehead. It felt warm, despite the cool film of sweat House could feel under his fingers. He took Wilson's pulse and found it going a lot faster than usual.

On to the next part