Fic: Cicatrices
Title: Cicatrices
Rating: PG? Men touching and kissing.
Pairing: House/Wilson
Summary: Eh, House thought to himself, not the most pleasurable thing to see.
Warning: Major spoilers for “Wilson”.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to NBC Universal, David Shore, Katie Jacobs, Bad Hat Harry Productions and FOX.
A/N: Thanks to topaz_eyes for the beta read :D
That scar is mocking him.
Stitches are strewn across the silver platter like huge, dead black ants. Loose rolls of gauze piled next to it like an empty anthill. Pieces of antiseptic gauze not far from the other medical waste had bits of dried blood and medication on them. Eh, House thought to himself, not the most pleasurable thing to see. The room smelled of iodine, bandages and bleach, which is a horrible combination all together. House looked everywhere, letting his eyes stray around the examination room, staring at the counters, the tongue depressor dispenser mounted on the wall, the floor, his hand; anywhere but at Wilson sitting on the examination bed.
“Why are you here anyway?” says Wilson. “You do know that removing stitches aren’t that big of a deal, right?”
“Hiding from Cuddy, what do you think?” House responds, his eyes still refusing to look in Wilson’s general direction. “She’ll never find me in the clinic when she wants me to be in the clinic.”
Wilson rolled his eyes. “Sure.”
“Well,” Dr. Gillick announces as he rises from the chair, “I think you’re good to go, James. It’s healing up quite nicely.”
Wilson stares down at the tender skin of his abdomen. “Great.”
“Hopefully the scar will start to fade soon once the tenderness goes away.” At that, Dr. Gillick starts heading out the door. “I’ll see you around.”
“Thanks, Michael.”
Dr. Gillick pats Wilson on the shoulder, gives House a nod and leaves.
House finally glances over at Wilson, whose back is turned towards him. “You feeling okay?”
“Yeah,” Wilson answers. “Just fine. Why?”
“Just wondering.” House shifts his gaze away when Wilson turns around to face him.
Unfortunately House caught a slight glimpse of Wilson’s stained skin as he buttons up his shirt. The revolting yellowness spread around the bottom of Wilson’s ribcage down to his stomach was an ugly color in contrast to the rest of Wilson’s pale complexion. House frowns slightly at the view.
“I’m heading back to work,” Wilson says as he perfects his tie and shrugs on his doctor’s coat. “Are you going to continue hiding here?”
“I suppose.” House replies.
------
House had seen Wilson naked before. He would barge through Wilson’s bedroom door unannounced in the mornings as he was changing out of his pajamas or walk in on him while he was showering. Even after so many years, Wilson still consciously covers himself up in embarrassment, which made it even more fun for House. Then, Wilson’s body was by no means flawless, but there were no abnormalities or odd discolorations on his torso. Sure he had light scars on his elbows and knees from his years of playing tennis, but other than that, Wilson’s body was clean of huge, ugly scars.
This used to be something that separated Wilson from him. He hated the scar on his thigh; its distorted and mingled state on House’s body reminded him constantly that he is vulnerable and the fact that a mistake was made in his life is burned skin deep. It made him seem weak and incomplete. House being House, he loathed the thought of having other people see his scars and define him by it, needless to say let himself be reminded just how fragile and pathetic he is.
Wilson saw his scars and took him as he is. He didn’t want to fix him, and he didn’t care if the scar wasn’t going to fade. He never once looked at House in a pitiful way others did when he limps across a room. He treats House like the normal human being he is, not once throwing away that basic respect. Right now he can’t even look at Wilson without feeling outraged about the fact that Wilson went through all that pain for someone so unworthy. As much as he hated the fact that Wilson now has a scar because of Tucker, he too, should take Wilson as he is, scarred or not.
House turns off the television and flings his feet off of the coffee table, removing himself from his comfortable position on the couch. He skillfully moves around the boxes in the living room and heads down the hallway. He throws open the door of Wilson’s bathroom and marches in.
“What the fuck, House?” Wilson reflexively bunches the remainder of his open pajama shirt over his chest. “Can’t you learn to knock?”
House’s eyes trail down to the small slit of Wilson’s pajamas. The discoloration on his stomach left from the iodine was lighter than before after Wilson’s shower, but it was still hideous and unflattering to see. He inches closer towards Wilson, keeping his eyes on Wilson’s body all the while.
“If you need to pee, at least wait until I leave.” Wilson shifts to the side and tries to escape.
House shoves his hand against the wall, blocking Wilson’s path.
Wilson looks up at him, confused. “What are you doing?”
House hooks his cane on the edge of the sink and reaches his left hand out, touching the collar of Wilson’s pajamas. He tugs slightly at the fabric, hinting Wilson to let go of his tight grip on his shirt.
“Let me.” He manages to say.
“Let you what?” Wilson steps back from House, forcing House to release his shirt.
“See.”
“You want to see my scar?”
House doesn’t answer.
“You could’ve seen it when I was doing my check up. But apparently you were busy looking at everything but it.” Wilson gives House a glance.
House reaches out again; this time his hand lands on top of Wilson’s. He gently, but firmly applies pressure on the hand keeping Wilson’s shirt together. Wilson releases his grip without giving much fight.
House grits his teeth and takes a deep breath as he looks down at the scar. It looked pink among the dirty amber of Wilson’s discolored skin, obviously still tender. It wasn’t as disfigured as his; Gillick had done a really good job making sure of that. He pulls away the parts of Wilson’s shirt that covered the rest of the scar.. He gingerly traces the skin from one side to the other. Wilson’s breath hitches upon contact, and tries to meet House’s eyes.
“You know that if you ever need a liver, or a kidney, I’d give it to you, right?” House’s voice was raw and hoarse.
“I know.”
“I’d do anything.”
“I know.”
House rubs his thumb over the end of Wilson’s scar as he sets his hand on Wilson’s waist. “I can’t believe you got this scar for that asshole.”
“He was my patient, House.”
“He was a self centered dick.” House remarks angrily. “If it were up to me, I would never ask you to do this.”
Wilson laughed softly. “You don’t know that.”
House finally meets Wilson’s eyes mournfully. “I wouldn’t let you.”
Wilson cups his hand over House’s cheek. “Well, you know that if you ever need an organ, I’d give it to you. Just like you would for me.”
He closes in and kisses House gently on the lips. House lets out a resigned sigh and pulls Wilson closer.
House always thought that only Wilson could see his scars, but everything has changed. Now only he could see the scars Wilson bears.
Somehow he found comfort in that.
Rating: PG? Men touching and kissing.
Pairing: House/Wilson
Summary: Eh, House thought to himself, not the most pleasurable thing to see.
Warning: Major spoilers for “Wilson”.
Disclaimer: All characters belong to NBC Universal, David Shore, Katie Jacobs, Bad Hat Harry Productions and FOX.
A/N: Thanks to topaz_eyes for the beta read :D
That scar is mocking him.
Stitches are strewn across the silver platter like huge, dead black ants. Loose rolls of gauze piled next to it like an empty anthill. Pieces of antiseptic gauze not far from the other medical waste had bits of dried blood and medication on them. Eh, House thought to himself, not the most pleasurable thing to see. The room smelled of iodine, bandages and bleach, which is a horrible combination all together. House looked everywhere, letting his eyes stray around the examination room, staring at the counters, the tongue depressor dispenser mounted on the wall, the floor, his hand; anywhere but at Wilson sitting on the examination bed.
“Why are you here anyway?” says Wilson. “You do know that removing stitches aren’t that big of a deal, right?”
“Hiding from Cuddy, what do you think?” House responds, his eyes still refusing to look in Wilson’s general direction. “She’ll never find me in the clinic when she wants me to be in the clinic.”
Wilson rolled his eyes. “Sure.”
“Well,” Dr. Gillick announces as he rises from the chair, “I think you’re good to go, James. It’s healing up quite nicely.”
Wilson stares down at the tender skin of his abdomen. “Great.”
“Hopefully the scar will start to fade soon once the tenderness goes away.” At that, Dr. Gillick starts heading out the door. “I’ll see you around.”
“Thanks, Michael.”
Dr. Gillick pats Wilson on the shoulder, gives House a nod and leaves.
House finally glances over at Wilson, whose back is turned towards him. “You feeling okay?”
“Yeah,” Wilson answers. “Just fine. Why?”
“Just wondering.” House shifts his gaze away when Wilson turns around to face him.
Unfortunately House caught a slight glimpse of Wilson’s stained skin as he buttons up his shirt. The revolting yellowness spread around the bottom of Wilson’s ribcage down to his stomach was an ugly color in contrast to the rest of Wilson’s pale complexion. House frowns slightly at the view.
“I’m heading back to work,” Wilson says as he perfects his tie and shrugs on his doctor’s coat. “Are you going to continue hiding here?”
“I suppose.” House replies.
------
House had seen Wilson naked before. He would barge through Wilson’s bedroom door unannounced in the mornings as he was changing out of his pajamas or walk in on him while he was showering. Even after so many years, Wilson still consciously covers himself up in embarrassment, which made it even more fun for House. Then, Wilson’s body was by no means flawless, but there were no abnormalities or odd discolorations on his torso. Sure he had light scars on his elbows and knees from his years of playing tennis, but other than that, Wilson’s body was clean of huge, ugly scars.
This used to be something that separated Wilson from him. He hated the scar on his thigh; its distorted and mingled state on House’s body reminded him constantly that he is vulnerable and the fact that a mistake was made in his life is burned skin deep. It made him seem weak and incomplete. House being House, he loathed the thought of having other people see his scars and define him by it, needless to say let himself be reminded just how fragile and pathetic he is.
Wilson saw his scars and took him as he is. He didn’t want to fix him, and he didn’t care if the scar wasn’t going to fade. He never once looked at House in a pitiful way others did when he limps across a room. He treats House like the normal human being he is, not once throwing away that basic respect. Right now he can’t even look at Wilson without feeling outraged about the fact that Wilson went through all that pain for someone so unworthy. As much as he hated the fact that Wilson now has a scar because of Tucker, he too, should take Wilson as he is, scarred or not.
House turns off the television and flings his feet off of the coffee table, removing himself from his comfortable position on the couch. He skillfully moves around the boxes in the living room and heads down the hallway. He throws open the door of Wilson’s bathroom and marches in.
“What the fuck, House?” Wilson reflexively bunches the remainder of his open pajama shirt over his chest. “Can’t you learn to knock?”
House’s eyes trail down to the small slit of Wilson’s pajamas. The discoloration on his stomach left from the iodine was lighter than before after Wilson’s shower, but it was still hideous and unflattering to see. He inches closer towards Wilson, keeping his eyes on Wilson’s body all the while.
“If you need to pee, at least wait until I leave.” Wilson shifts to the side and tries to escape.
House shoves his hand against the wall, blocking Wilson’s path.
Wilson looks up at him, confused. “What are you doing?”
House hooks his cane on the edge of the sink and reaches his left hand out, touching the collar of Wilson’s pajamas. He tugs slightly at the fabric, hinting Wilson to let go of his tight grip on his shirt.
“Let me.” He manages to say.
“Let you what?” Wilson steps back from House, forcing House to release his shirt.
“See.”
“You want to see my scar?”
House doesn’t answer.
“You could’ve seen it when I was doing my check up. But apparently you were busy looking at everything but it.” Wilson gives House a glance.
House reaches out again; this time his hand lands on top of Wilson’s. He gently, but firmly applies pressure on the hand keeping Wilson’s shirt together. Wilson releases his grip without giving much fight.
House grits his teeth and takes a deep breath as he looks down at the scar. It looked pink among the dirty amber of Wilson’s discolored skin, obviously still tender. It wasn’t as disfigured as his; Gillick had done a really good job making sure of that. He pulls away the parts of Wilson’s shirt that covered the rest of the scar.. He gingerly traces the skin from one side to the other. Wilson’s breath hitches upon contact, and tries to meet House’s eyes.
“You know that if you ever need a liver, or a kidney, I’d give it to you, right?” House’s voice was raw and hoarse.
“I know.”
“I’d do anything.”
“I know.”
House rubs his thumb over the end of Wilson’s scar as he sets his hand on Wilson’s waist. “I can’t believe you got this scar for that asshole.”
“He was my patient, House.”
“He was a self centered dick.” House remarks angrily. “If it were up to me, I would never ask you to do this.”
Wilson laughed softly. “You don’t know that.”
House finally meets Wilson’s eyes mournfully. “I wouldn’t let you.”
Wilson cups his hand over House’s cheek. “Well, you know that if you ever need an organ, I’d give it to you. Just like you would for me.”
He closes in and kisses House gently on the lips. House lets out a resigned sigh and pulls Wilson closer.
House always thought that only Wilson could see his scars, but everything has changed. Now only he could see the scars Wilson bears.
Somehow he found comfort in that.