#i hope you enjoy 😭🫡 biggest fear is not living up to expectations LOL

[repressionmd]

oooooooh my god dabble prompt #64

"What doesn't kill me still hurts." 922 words + hilson (i promise i tried to make this about thirteen but i am physically incapable apparently)

House was no stranger to painful medicine. He was no stranger to pain, but he was specifically no stranger to medicine that hurt. Short of chemotherapy, he'd tried out most of it. Admittedly, some of it was his fault - recovery after electric shocks was a bitch.

He had hated physio for his leg. Hated being pitied, hated the comforting consolations as he made no progress, only grew in anger as his leg seemed to burn more every day and his therapist smiled that same useless smile. He hated being forced to take fluids and lie around in bed. He hated the mandatory CBT after his 'suicide attempt'. He quit everything. He signed out AMA, he refused the better option. Even as a reasonable portion of his mind begged to weigh up the benefits, he didn't listen. He didn't quite know why.

Never mind that. He was trying to quit whatever treatment Wilson was suggesting at the moment - something he desperately did not want to go through with, and he noted with concern the rising panic in his stomach. Dissociating mid-conversation wasn't a good sign either.

"Come on, House, it could be good for you! There's studies, look. I sent them to you!"

Oh, right. Ice bath. "Nope." House turned around, intending to shut himself in his bedroom till Wilson left. If it also helped to mask his deep breath, well, that was just coincidence. He was feeling warm, restless. Scared. Warning bells rung out in his mind, hugely distracting and entirely useless. He didn't need to be told twice to know to get out of this.

"You've not even tried it. It could help!" Oh Wilson, if only you knew.

"Those studies are stupid. Besides, I don't want to. Warm water helps my leg, not ice. I'd think after all these years you'd know that."

Wilson had come up behind him, the traitor, grabbing his shoulder and turning him around, forcing House to meet his eyes. "I'm trying to help you, House, as your friend and as your doctor. It can't hurt to try. It won't kill you."

It won't kill me. House almost wanted to laugh. Yeah, it sure felt like it would have, when he was thrown out of the house, freezing to the bone. His dad had said it wouldn't kill him, and House had wished it would. Wished they would wake up to a cold, dead, Gregory House under the willow tree in the yard. Wished they would cry and scream and shout apologies to a boy who didn't hear them. Just once, he wanted to hurt them back.

"What doesn't kill me still hurts." Fuck. He sounded too genuine. The way his throat had caught on hurts would not be lost on Wilson either. Backtrack- too late. Wilson's face had fallen.

"Are you okay?"

Now House laughed. "Yeah, just peachy. Don't ever talk to me about ice baths again." He was shaking. Stumbling backwards, he brought his hands up to his face to hide the redness in his eyes he knew was building, and his leg buckled under the sudden weight as his cane was lifted up. One hand flew out to brace himself against the wall, cane clattering off to the side, but he kept his eyes closed so Wilson wouldn't see.

"Hey, House. Sorry. What's wrong?"

House had buried his face in his hands, brain short-circuiting as tears leaked out of his eyes. Fuck, this was embarrassing. "Lots."

"Does it hurt?"

"Yeah." Wilson meant his leg, but House meant everything.

"Do you… need anything?"

House took a deep, shuddering sigh. Looked up. Watched Wilson's emotions - worry, fear, shock, panic, guilt - clear as day on his face. "Just… promise me you won't talk about that again."

"Okay. I promise." Wilson knew trauma. Wilson had seen plenty, House knew. House knew that Wilson could see right through him, right now, and he had never felt so naked.

"Your leg will hurt more on the floor."

"Don't you think I don't know that, stupid?"

"Bed or couch?"

"You know, that's usually a very sexually charged question."

Wilson stared at him with a raised eyebrow, and House laughed, noting with more than a twinge of self-disgust at his sniffly state.

"Bed is fine."

Wilson helped him up, let House lean on him. Stood awkwardly at the threshold as House propped himself up on his bed and massaged his aching leg, till it was House's turn to raise his eyebrow. He patted the empty half of the bed.

"C'mere. I'll get bored like this."

"Want me to tell you a bedtime story, Greg?"

A flash of hurt. Another memory. Not so bad, and House mused with a vague sense of interest in his own inner workings, that maybe he could remake that memory.

It was many hours later that Wilson stopped talking, and House had ended up absent-mindedly combing through his hair. Wilson's hand was on his thigh, and it was well into the night.

They didn't talk about it. They didn't need to. Work shirts came off and old t-shirts were pulled out of cabinets, and if House ached for the way Wilson looked in House's clothes as he settled in to sleep, he didn't voice it. If House waited for Wilson's breathing to regulate before pulling him closer, he was sure he could explain it easy enough.

He thought though, and it was one of the clearest thoughts apart from his epiphanies he could remember having, that maybe, just maybe, he didn't want to.