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“How’s it going?” Wilson asks as he approaches, as House turns toward the parking lot, back to Cuddy.
“How guilty does she look?” House asks, glancing at Wilson.
“Hmm. About an eight.” He responds after a grimace, getting a contemplative look in return.
“That space is mine. Veni, vidi, vici.” House responds, turning around, Wilson following him into the parking lot.
Unfortunately, since his parking spot had been moved, House has to travel across the parking lot to get to his car. Even more unfortunately, he slips on a patch of black ice almost immediately. He gasps as he hits the ground, just barely missing the edge of the sidewalk, hands sliding on the ice. House can be dramatic at times, but his pain is the one thing he never exaggerates.
So when he looks up at James Wilson, hand trembling as he reaches for help, not a word escaping his lips, he takes the man seriously.
“C’mon, just take my hand. I got you.” Wilson whispers, one hand grasping the other’s, his free hand grasping House’s elbow, keeping him steady.
House eventually stumbles to his feet, shaky hands patting down his pockets, searching for the bottle that’s not there, a look of panic in his eyes. Today had been a good pain day; his leg only ached every now and then, so House had left his bottle inside his office, not thinking he’d need it between the time he steps outside and the time he enters his apartment.
And if he was certain of anything in this moment, it would be that he definitely should have sucked up his arrogance and grabbed that bottle.
“House, hey.” Wilson starts, grasping the man’s wrists. “Stop, alright? I’ll take you home. Just… easy.”
“Wilson, I don’t- I don’t…” Wilson shakes his head, steadying the man, hands on his shoulders.
“It’s okay. We’ll get you some, alright?” Wilson asks, gaining a sharp nod in return.
Wilson grabs House’s cane that had almost been forgotten on the ground, handing it over before leading him to his own car.
“We’ll grab your car tomorrow.” He says immediately as they pass by, before House can even begin to worry about it. In return, he gets a shaky nod and an uncommitted hum of acknowledgement.
The drive to House’s apartment is just as silent, the only noise to be heard is the heating groaning to warm up. House stares out the window the entire drive, and no matter how hard he tries to hide it, Wilson can see the trembling of hands as they clutch the edge of his jacket.
Meanwhile, House is struggling to keep his breathing steady, not wanting to let it show just how much he was struggling. He never told Wilson why he hates winter so much, but the other man always assumed it was to do with his leg. However, it was more than that.
When he fell, he had a flash of a memory. Quick, fleeting, but there. A moment that had been repeated what must of been hundreds of times over the course of his childhood, that he thought he had stuffed deep down enough to forget about.
After waiting what had felt like forever, the car finally stops, engine turning off. As soon as it does, House is out the door, limping to his apartment, keys jingling as his hands shake pulling them out. Wilson follows him just as quickly, knowing that any attempt to talk would be met with some sort of grunt or huff of breath.
After numerous attempts to unlock his door, hand shaking too much to keep the key steady enough, Wilson gently takes over, careful not to touch the other man more than necessary.
“I had it.” House huffs when the door finally opens, words barely audible.
“I know you did.” Wilson sighs, shutting the door behind him as he follows House inside. “Just sit down, alright? I’ll get your pills.”
House grunts, basically collapsing on the couch as soon as Wilson is out of sight. He starts to tug at his shoes, the material damp, laces impossible to untie. His hands shake as he starts getting more and more worked up, panic rising up his throat. His throat tightens, eyes burning as he blinks through the oncoming tears.
He doesn’t know how long Wilson was gone for, but he spent that entire time hunched over on the couch, trying desperately to untie his stupid fucking shoes. He doesn’t stop until Wilson’s kneeling in front of him, gently taking his hands off the laces. He shakes a couple of Vicodin into his palm and hands him a glass of water, working on his laces once he takes it.
“Drink it all.” Wilson requests, voice soothing and gentle, nearly a whisper. His hands are nimble, quickly getting the laces undone. Wilson glances up at House, pausing.
“Can I take these off for you, too?” He asks, hands hovering over his feet. House hesitates before nodding, staring down at the glass of water in his hand.
“Drink, please.” Wilson reminds, earning a scolding glare. He chuckles, shaking his head. “Sue me for caring, I guess.” He adds with an obvious smile, gently prying House’s tennis shoes off his feet.
“Greg…” Wilson sighs. “Your socks are soaked. C’mon, lets go get you changed.” He says, standing, holding a hand out to House, who hesitates, but takes his hand anyways, allowing the other man to help him up. He leans against him as they walk down the hall, not wanting to bother with his cane. Its not like Wilson minds, of course. Not even when his hair tickles his cheek, or he stumbles and nearly pulls them both to the ground. Not even when his hand tightens around Wilson’s when he does stumble, breath hitching for a moment when the threat of falling looms large.
Eventually, they do make it to his room, and Wilson helps him sit before making his way to House’s dresser, opening drawers to find clothes. Which is when his anxiety really works up. He never told Wilson about being trans. There was never any reason to bring it up. Which feels a little stupid now, since he’ll have to take off his binder. Another thing he never bothered with- top surgery. Cuddy and Stacy were the only ones who ever knew, and both kept it largely under lock and key. Its not like he was… large-chested in any way. But his best friend (borderline partner) might just notice.
“Wilson.” He says, voice quiet as he forces himself to speak. “Its fine. I got it.”
Wilson turns, eyebrow raised. “Greg, you can barely make yourself speak. Please, let me help you.”
House shakes his head, hands trembling once again.
“Fine, why not?” Wilson pushes, sitting on the edge of the bed. House shrugs, shame flaring up in his chest.
“A shrug isn’t an answer. Is it… your leg? Because I don’t mind, you know that.” But House responds with another shake of his head, fidgeting with his shirt.
Wilson pauses, contemplating. If its not his leg, than he really has no idea what’s bothering him. House, however, finds the silence to be suffocating. ”Just need privacy.” He huffs out, glancing over at Wilson, who responds with a hesitant nod as he stands back up. He silently goes back to House’s dresser, pulling out clothes for him, handing them over before leaving the room, door clicking shut behind him.
The moment the door clicks, House moves, opening the bottom drawer of his dresser, pulling out the binding tape. Suddenly, though, the idea sounds horrible. The tape always sticks wrong, clumping up against his skin and catching on his shirt. It’s the adhesive, too. Its sticky, and itchy. He’s always focusing on the feeling, which doesn’t sound very pleasant at the moment. So, hesitantly, he puts the box back and sits back down, hands on his knees as he tries to figure out what to do.
It comes down to a couple options. One, he puts the tape on anyways and tries to get through the evening without a meltdown. Two, he leaves the binder on and deals with the consequences of it later on down the road. Three, he doesn’t bind at all and put on his heaviest sweatshirt and hope that Wilson doesn’t notice.
Quite frankly, three doesn’t so bad right now. He has the perfect sweatshirt in mind. Honestly, he’s looking forward to it. Its still soft in the inside, and the material is thick, heavy, and slightly big on him, perfect for hiding in. So he goes with that.
He slowly gets changed, lips curling up just slightly when he notices that Wilson pulled out two pairs of thick socks instead of just one. He waits to take off his binder until last, trying to soak in the feeling for as long as possible. But House can’t deny that no matter how hard he tries to hate having it off, he really does enjoy the freedom. It makes his shoulders lighter, and it reminds him that no, his ribs shouldn’t be aching when he breathes.
Eventually, he does take off the binder, tossing it into the laundry bin as soon as he does, tugging on the tee that Wilson had grabbed. Finally, he grabs his sweatshirt from his closet, hanging near the front, pulling it on immediately.
The next step, however, is the hardest. Facing Wilson. So he takes a breath, steadying himself, before creaking open the door. He doesn’t find him lingering with an obsessively worried look on his face, which is a good sign. So House starts down the hallway, hand against the wall as he walks.
Thats when he sees Wilson, hunched over on his couch, his eyebrows obvious furrowed, a fact he can see without even entering the room. He’s worried, too worried.
House makes his way to the couch, sitting down next to Wilson, copying his pose. When Wilson doesn’t look up, he bumps his shoulder with his, trying to get his attention.
“What, you don’t have any wives to go cheat on tonight?” He jokes, trying not to let his anxiousness show on his face. Wilson rolls his eyes, looking up at him.
“Are you okay? I mean… you were shaking, House. Barely responding to me… wouldn’t even let me help you change. Which I’m not upset about, of course, but you didn’t seem to be in the right state of mind to even function. You still don’t, if I’m being honest.” Wilson rambles on, wringing his hands, glancing between House and the floor, barely taking a breath as he speaks.
“No. I’m not.” House interrupts, cutting off a long-winded sentence. And then he leans back, grabbing the remote and clicking on the TV, eyebrows furrowed as he fixates on finding something to watch, something that can distract him properly. Making it clear that he’s not up to having a discussion.
Which Wilson obviously doesn’t pick up on. House swears that sometimes, for such a smart man, he can be quite a dud.
“So that’s it? Not gonna say anything else? You’re not going to explain what’s going on or anything? You’re just going to sit here and watch TV and pretend that you didn’t almost have a complete mental breakdown over falling, not being able to unlock the door, and being unable to untie your shoes? Three minuscule things, House! You’re not going to explain it? At all? You’re seriously going to make me sit here and worry?” Wilson rants, getting increasingly upset. It gets even worse when he notices that House isn’t even trying to pretend he’s paying attention. Wilson doesn’t even notice House’s flinch, or how tense his shoulders are, or that his breath is audibly shaky. “Come on! Greg, look at me!”
House huffs, shaking his head, leaning away from him, glaring at the TV. But Wilson just refuses to take the hint. Next thing House knows, the remote is being tugged out of his hand, the TV is being turned off, and Wilson is standing in front of him, hands on his hips.
“Well?” He asks, staring down at him. Wilson doesn’t expect House to get up and shove him towards the door, shaking his head.
“Go.” He rasps out, barely able to make the word leave his throat. “If you’re going to be like this, go. I don’t want you here.”
Wilson stares at him, big brown eyes wide with shock and betrayal, watching him as he limps back to the couch, curling in on himself as he turns the TV back on. That’s when Wilson notices there’s something really wrong. House never does this, he’s never so vulnerable.
So, silently, he sits back down, glancing at House before looking back at the TV. “You can tell me in your own time. If it’s not… life threatening, I guess, then I’m sure I can go without knowing.”
But by the time he gets this out, House has already muted the TV and turned to look at him, suddenly having a determined look in his eye.
“I’m trans.” He blurts out right before Wilson was going to start speaking again. His mouth even opens and shuts in surprise, kind of like a fish, he notices.
“You… Huh?” Wilson mumbles, his brain sidetracked.
House repeats himself before continuing, starting to feel uneasy again.
“Yeah. Got the whole set.” He jokes, gesturing to his chest, his lips turning up, the smile not exactly finding the rest of his face.
“Oh.” Wilson breathes, leaning back, completely flabbergasted. “Well, I… I would’ve never known. That’s why you…?” He trails off, glancing at House again, who gives him a small nod in response.
“Okay.” He eventually says, nodding. “I’m not against it or anything, if you were worried about that. Just surprised. You wanna throw the TV on?”
House smiles, nodding. “Sounds great. Go get some beer?”
Wilson chuckles, getting up. He’s back within a minute, handing House a beer as he sits back down.
“So, what’s on?” He asks, getting comfortable.
“How do you feel about Rocky Horror?”