Fic : Odd Socks
Title: Odd Socks
Characters: House/Wilson
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None
Words: approx 700
Summary: Wilson has a cold and is sick on the couch at home. Just a little domestic sick!wilson fluff for the Picture Challenge at sick_wilson
"My feet are cold, House," Wilson said mournfully, looking down at his bare feet and then up at House, his eyes all soft and pleading.
House looked at his partner, huddled on the couch, a blanket wrapped around him, a mug of chicken soup clutched in his hands. He'd come home on Friday, stricken with a cold and seemed to expect House to look after him all weekend, because of how 'sick' he was. House had resisted as best he could but when Wilson had come into the living room, his nose running and his eyes watering, and collapsed onto the couch House had started to surrender. Hence the blanket and chicken soup, and the cold meds which House was beginning to think he had overenthusiastically prescribed. But there were limits, and if Wilson thought that House was going to stir himself and go fetch a pair of socks for him he had another think coming.
"They're really, really cold, House," Wilson said, and House could swear that his lower lip was trembling slightly and his eyes were glistening. Wilson clutched the blanket closer around himself and shivered, a touch dramatically to House's mind.
House was not going to give in to this. No way. Wilson could fetch his own socks.
House stomped back into the room, a pair of socks in his hand and practically threw them at Wilson, who fumbled them pathetically before clasping them to his chest protectively.
Wilson peered at the socks suspiciously.
"These aren't my socks. I don't have any socks like these."
House sat back down on the couch next to Wilson with a groan.
"Does it matter whose socks they are? Your feet are cold, put the damn socks on and stop whining."
"They're not mine, and I can't see you having red socks, so where did they come from?"
"The damn sock fairy brought them. Otherwise known as my mother. Sent them for my birthday, now I'm giving them to you. Happy birthday."
Wilson gave a little crooked, half stoned on cold meds, smile. "Thank you, House!" He carefully unrolled the ball of socks and then stared at them, eyes going wide.
"These aren't a pair."
House glanced over, and then back at the television. "Sure they are, both hideous red and white socks. Both the same."
Wilson held them up, squinting his eyes at them. "No, they're not. This one," he waved the offending article in House's face, "is red with white highlights, this one," more sock waggling, "is white with red highlights. Not a pair. "
House stared at him, a rhinovirus and a handful of meds had turned his partner into some sort of nitpicking, sock waggling, nagging, obsessive freak. No, hang on, he'd always been one of those.
"They're both red... and white. That's all that matters." House said definitively, hoping to end this ridiculous conversation.
"But they're not a... " House glared at him and Wilson wilted. With a long suffering sigh he bent down and put the socks on his oh-so-cold feet, his fingers fumbling with the simple task until House was almost tempted to bend down and do it for him. Almost. When he was finished Wilson frowned down at his feet and then looked back at House, a pouty expression on his face. House manfully ignored it.
The two men sat in silence for a while, Wilson snuggling up against House, dozing and half watching the television. House thought about telling him to stop drooling on his shoulder but decided he didn't mind, this once, what with Wilson being sick and all. Part of being a couple was making some concessions, after all. At least Wilson was going to owe him big time after this weekend.
The silence was broken a short while later by Wilson. "House?"
"Yes, Wilson?"
"My hands are cold."
Characters: House/Wilson
Rating: PG
Spoilers: None
Words: approx 700
Summary: Wilson has a cold and is sick on the couch at home. Just a little domestic sick!wilson fluff for the Picture Challenge at sick_wilson
"My feet are cold, House," Wilson said mournfully, looking down at his bare feet and then up at House, his eyes all soft and pleading.
House looked at his partner, huddled on the couch, a blanket wrapped around him, a mug of chicken soup clutched in his hands. He'd come home on Friday, stricken with a cold and seemed to expect House to look after him all weekend, because of how 'sick' he was. House had resisted as best he could but when Wilson had come into the living room, his nose running and his eyes watering, and collapsed onto the couch House had started to surrender. Hence the blanket and chicken soup, and the cold meds which House was beginning to think he had overenthusiastically prescribed. But there were limits, and if Wilson thought that House was going to stir himself and go fetch a pair of socks for him he had another think coming.
"They're really, really cold, House," Wilson said, and House could swear that his lower lip was trembling slightly and his eyes were glistening. Wilson clutched the blanket closer around himself and shivered, a touch dramatically to House's mind.
House was not going to give in to this. No way. Wilson could fetch his own socks.
House stomped back into the room, a pair of socks in his hand and practically threw them at Wilson, who fumbled them pathetically before clasping them to his chest protectively.
Wilson peered at the socks suspiciously.
"These aren't my socks. I don't have any socks like these."
House sat back down on the couch next to Wilson with a groan.
"Does it matter whose socks they are? Your feet are cold, put the damn socks on and stop whining."
"They're not mine, and I can't see you having red socks, so where did they come from?"
"The damn sock fairy brought them. Otherwise known as my mother. Sent them for my birthday, now I'm giving them to you. Happy birthday."
Wilson gave a little crooked, half stoned on cold meds, smile. "Thank you, House!" He carefully unrolled the ball of socks and then stared at them, eyes going wide.
"These aren't a pair."
House glanced over, and then back at the television. "Sure they are, both hideous red and white socks. Both the same."
Wilson held them up, squinting his eyes at them. "No, they're not. This one," he waved the offending article in House's face, "is red with white highlights, this one," more sock waggling, "is white with red highlights. Not a pair. "
House stared at him, a rhinovirus and a handful of meds had turned his partner into some sort of nitpicking, sock waggling, nagging, obsessive freak. No, hang on, he'd always been one of those.
"They're both red... and white. That's all that matters." House said definitively, hoping to end this ridiculous conversation.
"But they're not a... " House glared at him and Wilson wilted. With a long suffering sigh he bent down and put the socks on his oh-so-cold feet, his fingers fumbling with the simple task until House was almost tempted to bend down and do it for him. Almost. When he was finished Wilson frowned down at his feet and then looked back at House, a pouty expression on his face. House manfully ignored it.
The two men sat in silence for a while, Wilson snuggling up against House, dozing and half watching the television. House thought about telling him to stop drooling on his shoulder but decided he didn't mind, this once, what with Wilson being sick and all. Part of being a couple was making some concessions, after all. At least Wilson was going to owe him big time after this weekend.
The silence was broken a short while later by Wilson. "House?"
"Yes, Wilson?"
"My hands are cold."