HOUSE M.D. FIC: Heart-Shaped Box
Title: Heart-Shaped Box
Fandom: House M.D.
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Gen for S7. House/Wilson friendship.
Summary: No one wants to acknowledge the true nature of Wilson’s heart trouble. Written for the We *heart* Wilson V-Day challenge at Sick!Wilson.
Warning: Includes a minor spoiler from 7X12, "You Must Remember This."
Wilson paused at the head of the stairs and braced his hand against the wall, wincing at the sudden constriction in his chest. He felt decidedly light-headed, too. Must still be under the weather from my recent bout with the flu.
He walked slowly to his office, trying not to be unduly worried by his harsh, shallow breaths. When he opened the door, he discovered a CD-sized, heart-shaped box wrapped in a flourish of gold ribbon sitting on his desk, but no note. Curious, Wilson dropped into his chair and unraveled the ribbon, then lifted the lid and sniffed suspiciously at the contents. The bittersweet scent of the chocolate truffles inside made him cough painfully.
Closing the box and setting it aside, Wilson arranged the files for his morning appointments neatly on the desk and began reviewing them. He was still short of breath a few minutes later when House’s head, followed by his entire lanky frame, insinuated itself into his office.
“You’re late,” he greeted Wilson curtly.
Sometimes the best defense was a good offense. “Technically, no. What are you doing here so early?”
“Rode in with Cuddy.” House plopped himself onto the chair facing Wilson’s desk, reaching automatically for the heart-shaped box. He opened his mouth to pop in a chocolate, chewed it thoughtfully for a moment, then cocked his head. “You’re practically panting. Elevator out of service?”
“I always take the stairs when I’m not with you,” Wilson retorted, massaging the back of his neck, hoping that the pounding in his head and the ache behind his ribs would subside. He was getting tired of always being the considerate one in this friendship, if what he and House had could even be dignified with that word in recent months, and he knew that this uncharacteristic response couldn’t fail to get the other man’s attention.
Sure enough, House gave him a sharp look, but then apparently decided to let it pass. “Well, you must be letting yourself go if a few flights of stairs leave you like this.”
Wilson gritted his teeth. “I’m still getting over the flu.”
House looked genuinely surprised, then had the grace to appear embarrassed. Self-absorbed bastard didn’t even notice that I was out sick all last week. But rather than apologize, House adroitly changed the subject.
“About tonight. V-Day.” He made it sound like a decisive battle to be fought.
“What about it?” Wilson asked, hating himself a little for being willing to play along. He tried to take a deeper breath past the tightness in his chest.
“Saint Valentine,” House said, “was jailed, beaten, stoned, and ultimately beheaded for aiding and abetting early Christians. Whoever decided to make him the patron saint of lovers had a sick concept of romance.”
“Actually,” Wilson pointed out, “he’s considered the patron saint of lovers because he was a priest who performed illicit marriages.”
“I rest my case,” House said, grabbing another chocolate out of the box and popping it into his maw.
“Nice try. You still need to do something special for Cuddy tonight.”
“Speaking of nice tries,” House said, “I thought you’d sworn off dispensing relationship advice. Which you clearly should, given the state of your own social life.”
“Who are you, and what have you done with the man who’s always accused me of rushing into all the wrong relationships?” Wilson tried to keep his tone casual, but he could feel his chest tightening further, like a clenched fist was squeezing his heart; the blood was beating erratically in his ears. He had expected his body to settle down by this point, but if anything, his heart rate and perspiration had only increased; he could feel cold sweat running down the back of his too-snug shirt. He yanked at his tie to loosen its chokehold and tugged ineffectually at the collar.
“Wilson?” House paused with the third chocolate midway to his mouth.
“Guh. My heart is… House?” Wilson heard a note of real panic in his voice. He tried to rise, feeling alarmingly light-headed, but the dizziness forced him back into his seat.
House leaned over, looking surprised, and pressed his fingers firmly to Wilson’s carotid pulse. “VT,” he announced. “What the hell?”
“Don’t tell me you… urgh… me again,” Wilson slurred. His vision was beginning to darken and fade. House’s puzzled frown was the last thing he saw before passing out and slumping forward onto the desk.
***
An indeterminate amount of time later, Wilson became aware of Foreman’s somber voice droning a few feet away. “CBC and CHEM-7 were normal… no structural abnormalities in the lungs or heart…” The words faded in and out. Though feeling hazy and ennervated, Wilson tried to force himself to focus.
“Could be complications from the flu.” That was Chase.
“Environmental toxins seem…” Wilson lost the thread of Taub’s thought process as he became aware that he was on oxygen, the nasal cannula tickling his nostrils. He tried to reach up to adjust it, but it felt as though his bones were made of water.
Suddenly House’s tense voice cut through the discussion like a scalpel. “My money’s on environmental. You two - search the patient’s home. Here’s his key.”
Shit. If the fellows were sent out to search the condo, they were bound to discover Sarah, and once House learned about his secret new companion, Wilson knew he’d never hear the end of it.
“Are you sure?” asked Masters, sounding surprised.
“The patient is obviously unfit for questioning,” House barked. “Besides, this is Wilson the master of mendacity we’re talking about.”
“I only meant,” Masters said plaintively, “that since you’re most familiar with his home, I thought you might want to search it yourself.”
House said nothing, but Wilson could hear Foreman murmuring something, presumably to Masters. He struggled to force his eyelids open, but he was so, so tired. Summoning all his strength, he heard himself make a mewling sound, then shut his mouth again, feeling humiliated.
“Dr. Wilson?” That was Chase’s voice, close, as if the young doctor were bending over him. “Can you hear us? I think he’s waking up!”
But the effort had exhausted his resources. His head swimming, Wilson allowed a wave of darkness to sweep him into sweet oblivion once more.
***
The next time Wilson came to, he felt considerably more human, although still weak and disoriented. He could hear an argument taking place in a semicircle around his bedside and managed to crack open one eye.
“He got the cat recently. He was out with flu-like symptoms last week. He clearly has a rare cardiac complication from toxoplasmosis,” House snapped.
“There is no evidence of that,” Foreman argued.
“You’re forgetting the curious results from the CBC and CHEM-7!”
“CBC and CHEM-7 were normal,” Taub reminded him.
“Those were the curious results!” House almost shouted.
“The ELISA was negative for toxoplasmosis,” Chase said, his frustration suggesting that it wasn’t the first time.
“It has to be toxoplasmosis. You’re not detecting antibodies because his immune system is depressed. Run a damn PCR for T. gondii.” He leveled a glare at the unmoving Chase. “Your date will just have to wait.”
“All of them,” Taub added under his breath.
“Why can’t Taub or Foreman do the PCR?” Chase whined. “They obviously don’t have any plans tonight.”
“All the more reason to let them go early so they can spend the evening having other people’s coupled bliss rubbed in their faces.”
“Thanks,” said Taub.
“You’re an ass,” said Foreman.
“I already have Valentine’s Day plans,” Masters piped up, as if anyone had asked.
“Bridget Jones’ Diary and a gallon of Rocky Road?” House hazarded.
“Not even close,” she said, blushing.
“Oh, I forgot, they’d be way too old for you. Maybe something in the Ringwald oeuvre?”
Wilson couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, although he felt oddly comforted to know that his secret was out and House was on the case. Once again the surrounding voices became less distinct, and soon they had vanished entirely.
***
When Wilson opened his eyes again, Chase was standing by his bedside, adjusting the oxygen regulator with an expression of long suffering. There was an IV line taped in place to his right hand; Wilson flexed his fingers experimentally, feeling a slight pinch.
“Chase?” Wilson croaked weakly. He licked his lips and tried again. “What’s… happening to me?”
Chase laid a soothing hand on his shoulder. “You apparently suffered an episode of ventricular tachycardia while House was with you in your office. House thinks it was due to myocarditis secondary to toxoplasmosis. We've got you on doxycycline, but I’m running the PCR right now to confirm.”
Wilson felt himself frowning. “What… do you think?” he rasped.
An uncertain shrug. “The ELISA was negative, and there doesn’t seem to be anything physically wrong with you.”
“But you… have an idea.” He was rewarded by a brief flicker of emotion on Chase’s face. “Tell… me.”
Chase glanced around quickly, then bent closer and said in a low voice, “Dr. Wilson… I think you may be suffering from broken heart syndrome.”
“That doesn’t make any sense… Sam left me… weeks ago,” Wilson objected. “Wouldn’t the symptoms be… less severe, not more?”
“I wasn’t talking about Sam,” Chase said, raising his eyebrows significantly.
“Then… who…“
The door to his room slid open. “Jimmy!” House cried jovially as he hastened over, leaning heavily on his cane. Wilson was touched by the relief evident in the other man’s voice. “You’ve been holding out on me. Should have known you were getting some pussy on the QT.”
Chase rolled his eyes and left the two of them alone.
“Her name’s… Sarah,” Wilson told him. “Oh, shit. What time is it? She needs her shot.”
“You really know how to pick ‘em,” House drawled. “Trust Captain Cares-a-lot to bring home a cat with diabetes on top of toxoplasmosis.”
“Had to take her. Belonged to… my neighbor.”
“Jesus, Wilson. People like cats because they’re self-sufficient. They’re also aloof, temperamental, rough-tongued, only reliably on hand at mealtimes, and contrary pains in the ass.”
“So are you saying… that I’ve found… the perfect substitute… for you?”
“I’m saying,” House scowled, “that you’ve managed to pick an animal that lacks all of the desirable traits of the feline persuasion yet still possesses all of the annoying ones.”
“I rest… my case,” Wilson wheezed.
He thought he heard a smothered uptake of breath that might have been either chuckle or a sob as he drifted off to sleep again.
***
Wilson woke, gasping, from vaguely disturbing dreams. He felt as if a heavy weight had settled on his chest, squeezing the breath from his lungs and causing his pulse to skyrocket in response to his oxygen-deprived tissues. Even as he struggled against his lassitude to sit up, his eyelids popped open to reveal… a pair of anxious yellow eyes in a fluffy, white, whiskered face. Seeing that he was finally awake, Sarah leaned forward and licked him delicately on the nose.
“Oof,” Wilson groaned. “How did you-“ A motion in his peripheral vision made him turn his head to behold House, blinking in the chair by his bedside. Wilson watched his friend take off the reading glasses that had slipped askew while he dozed.
“You don’t have toxoplasmosis,” House said gruffly. “And I had to bring her in. She was due for her insulin.”
“You could have given her the shot,” Wilson pointed out, breathing more easily as Sarah disembarked and stretched herself along the length of his thigh with a scratchy purr.
“Nah. Syringe thumb,” House said, demonstrating. “I’ll probably need PT.”
“Yeah,” Wilson said, feeling an abrupt unclenching in his chest that had nothing to do with the departure of ten pounds of pussycat. And then, running his hand down Sarah’s silky, vibrating back: “Thanks.”
House nodded. “So… want to tell me what’s been going on?”
“Not especially.” House just waited; the man could outstubborn a cat. Finally Wilson huffed, “Look. You’ve only had attention to spare… for two things lately. Mysterious ailments… and the person who’s having sex with you.”
House cocked his head. “And you decided on the first approach? Way to go.”
Wilson felt his lip twitch. “Yeah. In the sober light of day… I’m a serious buzzkill.” Basking in House’s appreciative smirk, he suddenly realized that the glass behind the window blinds was dark. “Wait a minute… What time is it? Don’t you have a dinner date?”
The other man shrugged. “Cuddy’s with a doctor. She’s used to being alone.”
“House,” Wilson began warningly, but his friend was already hauling himself to his feet.
“Relax. I promised her something extra special tomorrow. Tonight we’re gonna have Chinese food and watch Wife Swap.” House held up a hand to fend off any protests. “Don’t get up. I’ve already got your credit card.” He disappeared through the doorway, and Wilson released a sigh that was equal parts relief and exasperation.
Only then did he notice that the small heart-shaped box from his office was sitting unobtrusively on his bedside tray. On impulse, he fumbled for the lid with his left hand to find the box empty of chocolates. Instead, inside was a note written in House’s firm, untidy hand: Eat your heart out, it said, and then, in much smaller script below that, I’ll make this up to you.
Wilson knew that House hadn’t just been referring to the candy. He leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes, his heart lighter than it had felt in months.
Fandom: House M.D.
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Gen for S7. House/Wilson friendship.
Summary: No one wants to acknowledge the true nature of Wilson’s heart trouble. Written for the We *heart* Wilson V-Day challenge at Sick!Wilson.
Warning: Includes a minor spoiler from 7X12, "You Must Remember This."
Wilson paused at the head of the stairs and braced his hand against the wall, wincing at the sudden constriction in his chest. He felt decidedly light-headed, too. Must still be under the weather from my recent bout with the flu.
He walked slowly to his office, trying not to be unduly worried by his harsh, shallow breaths. When he opened the door, he discovered a CD-sized, heart-shaped box wrapped in a flourish of gold ribbon sitting on his desk, but no note. Curious, Wilson dropped into his chair and unraveled the ribbon, then lifted the lid and sniffed suspiciously at the contents. The bittersweet scent of the chocolate truffles inside made him cough painfully.
Closing the box and setting it aside, Wilson arranged the files for his morning appointments neatly on the desk and began reviewing them. He was still short of breath a few minutes later when House’s head, followed by his entire lanky frame, insinuated itself into his office.
“You’re late,” he greeted Wilson curtly.
Sometimes the best defense was a good offense. “Technically, no. What are you doing here so early?”
“Rode in with Cuddy.” House plopped himself onto the chair facing Wilson’s desk, reaching automatically for the heart-shaped box. He opened his mouth to pop in a chocolate, chewed it thoughtfully for a moment, then cocked his head. “You’re practically panting. Elevator out of service?”
“I always take the stairs when I’m not with you,” Wilson retorted, massaging the back of his neck, hoping that the pounding in his head and the ache behind his ribs would subside. He was getting tired of always being the considerate one in this friendship, if what he and House had could even be dignified with that word in recent months, and he knew that this uncharacteristic response couldn’t fail to get the other man’s attention.
Sure enough, House gave him a sharp look, but then apparently decided to let it pass. “Well, you must be letting yourself go if a few flights of stairs leave you like this.”
Wilson gritted his teeth. “I’m still getting over the flu.”
House looked genuinely surprised, then had the grace to appear embarrassed. Self-absorbed bastard didn’t even notice that I was out sick all last week. But rather than apologize, House adroitly changed the subject.
“About tonight. V-Day.” He made it sound like a decisive battle to be fought.
“What about it?” Wilson asked, hating himself a little for being willing to play along. He tried to take a deeper breath past the tightness in his chest.
“Saint Valentine,” House said, “was jailed, beaten, stoned, and ultimately beheaded for aiding and abetting early Christians. Whoever decided to make him the patron saint of lovers had a sick concept of romance.”
“Actually,” Wilson pointed out, “he’s considered the patron saint of lovers because he was a priest who performed illicit marriages.”
“I rest my case,” House said, grabbing another chocolate out of the box and popping it into his maw.
“Nice try. You still need to do something special for Cuddy tonight.”
“Speaking of nice tries,” House said, “I thought you’d sworn off dispensing relationship advice. Which you clearly should, given the state of your own social life.”
“Who are you, and what have you done with the man who’s always accused me of rushing into all the wrong relationships?” Wilson tried to keep his tone casual, but he could feel his chest tightening further, like a clenched fist was squeezing his heart; the blood was beating erratically in his ears. He had expected his body to settle down by this point, but if anything, his heart rate and perspiration had only increased; he could feel cold sweat running down the back of his too-snug shirt. He yanked at his tie to loosen its chokehold and tugged ineffectually at the collar.
“Wilson?” House paused with the third chocolate midway to his mouth.
“Guh. My heart is… House?” Wilson heard a note of real panic in his voice. He tried to rise, feeling alarmingly light-headed, but the dizziness forced him back into his seat.
House leaned over, looking surprised, and pressed his fingers firmly to Wilson’s carotid pulse. “VT,” he announced. “What the hell?”
“Don’t tell me you… urgh… me again,” Wilson slurred. His vision was beginning to darken and fade. House’s puzzled frown was the last thing he saw before passing out and slumping forward onto the desk.
***
An indeterminate amount of time later, Wilson became aware of Foreman’s somber voice droning a few feet away. “CBC and CHEM-7 were normal… no structural abnormalities in the lungs or heart…” The words faded in and out. Though feeling hazy and ennervated, Wilson tried to force himself to focus.
“Could be complications from the flu.” That was Chase.
“Environmental toxins seem…” Wilson lost the thread of Taub’s thought process as he became aware that he was on oxygen, the nasal cannula tickling his nostrils. He tried to reach up to adjust it, but it felt as though his bones were made of water.
Suddenly House’s tense voice cut through the discussion like a scalpel. “My money’s on environmental. You two - search the patient’s home. Here’s his key.”
Shit. If the fellows were sent out to search the condo, they were bound to discover Sarah, and once House learned about his secret new companion, Wilson knew he’d never hear the end of it.
“Are you sure?” asked Masters, sounding surprised.
“The patient is obviously unfit for questioning,” House barked. “Besides, this is Wilson the master of mendacity we’re talking about.”
“I only meant,” Masters said plaintively, “that since you’re most familiar with his home, I thought you might want to search it yourself.”
House said nothing, but Wilson could hear Foreman murmuring something, presumably to Masters. He struggled to force his eyelids open, but he was so, so tired. Summoning all his strength, he heard himself make a mewling sound, then shut his mouth again, feeling humiliated.
“Dr. Wilson?” That was Chase’s voice, close, as if the young doctor were bending over him. “Can you hear us? I think he’s waking up!”
But the effort had exhausted his resources. His head swimming, Wilson allowed a wave of darkness to sweep him into sweet oblivion once more.
***
The next time Wilson came to, he felt considerably more human, although still weak and disoriented. He could hear an argument taking place in a semicircle around his bedside and managed to crack open one eye.
“He got the cat recently. He was out with flu-like symptoms last week. He clearly has a rare cardiac complication from toxoplasmosis,” House snapped.
“There is no evidence of that,” Foreman argued.
“You’re forgetting the curious results from the CBC and CHEM-7!”
“CBC and CHEM-7 were normal,” Taub reminded him.
“Those were the curious results!” House almost shouted.
“The ELISA was negative for toxoplasmosis,” Chase said, his frustration suggesting that it wasn’t the first time.
“It has to be toxoplasmosis. You’re not detecting antibodies because his immune system is depressed. Run a damn PCR for T. gondii.” He leveled a glare at the unmoving Chase. “Your date will just have to wait.”
“All of them,” Taub added under his breath.
“Why can’t Taub or Foreman do the PCR?” Chase whined. “They obviously don’t have any plans tonight.”
“All the more reason to let them go early so they can spend the evening having other people’s coupled bliss rubbed in their faces.”
“Thanks,” said Taub.
“You’re an ass,” said Foreman.
“I already have Valentine’s Day plans,” Masters piped up, as if anyone had asked.
“Bridget Jones’ Diary and a gallon of Rocky Road?” House hazarded.
“Not even close,” she said, blushing.
“Oh, I forgot, they’d be way too old for you. Maybe something in the Ringwald oeuvre?”
Wilson couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, although he felt oddly comforted to know that his secret was out and House was on the case. Once again the surrounding voices became less distinct, and soon they had vanished entirely.
***
When Wilson opened his eyes again, Chase was standing by his bedside, adjusting the oxygen regulator with an expression of long suffering. There was an IV line taped in place to his right hand; Wilson flexed his fingers experimentally, feeling a slight pinch.
“Chase?” Wilson croaked weakly. He licked his lips and tried again. “What’s… happening to me?”
Chase laid a soothing hand on his shoulder. “You apparently suffered an episode of ventricular tachycardia while House was with you in your office. House thinks it was due to myocarditis secondary to toxoplasmosis. We've got you on doxycycline, but I’m running the PCR right now to confirm.”
Wilson felt himself frowning. “What… do you think?” he rasped.
An uncertain shrug. “The ELISA was negative, and there doesn’t seem to be anything physically wrong with you.”
“But you… have an idea.” He was rewarded by a brief flicker of emotion on Chase’s face. “Tell… me.”
Chase glanced around quickly, then bent closer and said in a low voice, “Dr. Wilson… I think you may be suffering from broken heart syndrome.”
“That doesn’t make any sense… Sam left me… weeks ago,” Wilson objected. “Wouldn’t the symptoms be… less severe, not more?”
“I wasn’t talking about Sam,” Chase said, raising his eyebrows significantly.
“Then… who…“
The door to his room slid open. “Jimmy!” House cried jovially as he hastened over, leaning heavily on his cane. Wilson was touched by the relief evident in the other man’s voice. “You’ve been holding out on me. Should have known you were getting some pussy on the QT.”
Chase rolled his eyes and left the two of them alone.
“Her name’s… Sarah,” Wilson told him. “Oh, shit. What time is it? She needs her shot.”
“You really know how to pick ‘em,” House drawled. “Trust Captain Cares-a-lot to bring home a cat with diabetes on top of toxoplasmosis.”
“Had to take her. Belonged to… my neighbor.”
“Jesus, Wilson. People like cats because they’re self-sufficient. They’re also aloof, temperamental, rough-tongued, only reliably on hand at mealtimes, and contrary pains in the ass.”
“So are you saying… that I’ve found… the perfect substitute… for you?”
“I’m saying,” House scowled, “that you’ve managed to pick an animal that lacks all of the desirable traits of the feline persuasion yet still possesses all of the annoying ones.”
“I rest… my case,” Wilson wheezed.
He thought he heard a smothered uptake of breath that might have been either chuckle or a sob as he drifted off to sleep again.
***
Wilson woke, gasping, from vaguely disturbing dreams. He felt as if a heavy weight had settled on his chest, squeezing the breath from his lungs and causing his pulse to skyrocket in response to his oxygen-deprived tissues. Even as he struggled against his lassitude to sit up, his eyelids popped open to reveal… a pair of anxious yellow eyes in a fluffy, white, whiskered face. Seeing that he was finally awake, Sarah leaned forward and licked him delicately on the nose.
“Oof,” Wilson groaned. “How did you-“ A motion in his peripheral vision made him turn his head to behold House, blinking in the chair by his bedside. Wilson watched his friend take off the reading glasses that had slipped askew while he dozed.
“You don’t have toxoplasmosis,” House said gruffly. “And I had to bring her in. She was due for her insulin.”
“You could have given her the shot,” Wilson pointed out, breathing more easily as Sarah disembarked and stretched herself along the length of his thigh with a scratchy purr.
“Nah. Syringe thumb,” House said, demonstrating. “I’ll probably need PT.”
“Yeah,” Wilson said, feeling an abrupt unclenching in his chest that had nothing to do with the departure of ten pounds of pussycat. And then, running his hand down Sarah’s silky, vibrating back: “Thanks.”
House nodded. “So… want to tell me what’s been going on?”
“Not especially.” House just waited; the man could outstubborn a cat. Finally Wilson huffed, “Look. You’ve only had attention to spare… for two things lately. Mysterious ailments… and the person who’s having sex with you.”
House cocked his head. “And you decided on the first approach? Way to go.”
Wilson felt his lip twitch. “Yeah. In the sober light of day… I’m a serious buzzkill.” Basking in House’s appreciative smirk, he suddenly realized that the glass behind the window blinds was dark. “Wait a minute… What time is it? Don’t you have a dinner date?”
The other man shrugged. “Cuddy’s with a doctor. She’s used to being alone.”
“House,” Wilson began warningly, but his friend was already hauling himself to his feet.
“Relax. I promised her something extra special tomorrow. Tonight we’re gonna have Chinese food and watch Wife Swap.” House held up a hand to fend off any protests. “Don’t get up. I’ve already got your credit card.” He disappeared through the doorway, and Wilson released a sigh that was equal parts relief and exasperation.
Only then did he notice that the small heart-shaped box from his office was sitting unobtrusively on his bedside tray. On impulse, he fumbled for the lid with his left hand to find the box empty of chocolates. Instead, inside was a note written in House’s firm, untidy hand: Eat your heart out, it said, and then, in much smaller script below that, I’ll make this up to you.
Wilson knew that House hadn’t just been referring to the candy. He leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes, his heart lighter than it had felt in months.