Sick Soup

James Wilson coughed, spitting a piece of phlegm onto a handkerchief. Great, just what he needed. And just what he got for believing House to be there. He had thought that House would change after they started their relationship, but no~... He was still an immature, irresponsible prat, and he got sick trying to prove reality wrong.

He sighed, burrowing further under the blankets. Really, how stupid was it?

Suddenly, the doors to his bedroom popped open, and a familiar head poked in. "Wilson?"


"Are you sleeping?" There was something about that tone, something almost... meek and apologetic that had Wilson's tired brain on full alert immediately. He sat up quickly and faced the doorway. "What did you do?"

House averted his gaze, looking almost... sheepish? Not good. "Um..."

"Get in here." Wilson lifted his arm in an inviting gesture, scooting back to lean against the headboard. "And talk. Now." Sick or not, it was time for damage control. First things first: learn the name of the person who he will be apologizing to.

"I made you dinner." came the reply, with House staying where he was.

Wilson blinked. Dinner? As in cooked? "Is the kitchen still standing?"

"Yeah." A glimmer of defensiveness flashed through the blue, and Wilson nearly sank in relief. So there was no need to run from the apartment screaming "Fire!!" on the top of their lungs. "Well... what did you make?"

The question seemed to cheer House up, for he brightened noticeably – or as noticeably as House got – and the diagnostician slipped inside, balancing a tray in his hands. "Soup."

Ah, that was difficult to make uneatable. Wilson smiled encouragingly, accepting the offering onto his lap. After all, this would be the first meal ever prepared by House for someone else. He wondered briefly if he should give Cuddy a call and tell her the news.

No. First, he would see what kind of soup House made him.

He uncovered the plate, and nearly gagged at the scent that steamed up and around him. It smelt like House had simply threw several ingredients into boiling water, added a dash of spices not meant to be mixed, then overcooked it. A quick glance proved the look of the 'meal' matched the scent perfectly.

Great Moses. He'd have to air the kitchen for days.

House, however, was unaware of the other's horror, mainly because he kept his gaze on the floor, twiddling his thumbs. "Listen, Wilson... I wanted to... apologise for... you know." He cleared his throat. "I know it's my fault you're sick now, and... cause we're together, I'm gonna try to be.. a little less Housian for now, okay? Till you're better, and all that." He glanced at Wilson, looking so damn trying-to-please-you-don't-be-mad-anymore, and gave him a soft, eager smile. The one that usually had Wilson ending up driving for something House wanted in the middle of the night.

Or eating the 'soup'.

After a brief glance at the 'meal' (and a mental shudder), Wilson gave his best smile, and took a spoonful into his mouth.

He was proud of himself for not gagging. And doubly proud for swallowing.

He was just about to take another (oh the horror), when he heard a snicker.

"I can't believe you actually ate that."

The oncologist's head snapped up, staring at the other with wide eyes. Whatdidhejustsay??!!

House grinned at him mischievously, his shoulders shaking as he continued sniggering. "Wow. Just wow." He stood up, and lifted the tray up, pressing a quick kiss to Wilson's brow. "I'll go bring you the Chinese I ordered before your stomach starts hating you."

He chuckled again, then limped out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

Wilson sat staring after him, the vile taste of the Soup of Doom still melting his taste buds.